Between The Echoes
by ImpalaLove
Summary: "It begins in a dream, a nightmare not unlike a lot of the ones he's had before. The people he couldn't save, they all come back to him eventually." Post-Purgatory Dean and the adjustment period we never truly got.
1. Chapter 1

**Between The Echoes**

 **Set early season 8 after 8X01 and before 8x02 "What's Up, Tiger Mommy?" This story assumes that there's a fairly large gap between episodes 1 and 2.**

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Chapter 1~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It begins in a dream, a nightmare not unlike a lot of the ones he's had before. The people he couldn't save, they all come back to him eventually. Sometimes their faces mold themselves into the hideous fabric of motel comforters and in the cracking plaster of gas station bathroom walls. Sometimes he can't picture their faces at all.

That's worse.

This dream isn't the worst he's had. Dean remembers the face and the time and all the other little details because memory is a curse in this business and someone upstairs probably decided it'd be hilarious to give him a damn good one. Consciousness finds him before the details of the dream really make themselves known. It's just a vague picture swaddled in remembering. But he wakes up and the face from the dream is still there. A boy, flickering at the edges of his drearily blinking eyes.

"First shower?" Sam asks, and Dean realizes he's truly awake now, that the image should be gone, or at least fading. The boy frowns at him. Dean knows exactly how old he is. Should be.

Only just a teenager. Hasn't yet learned how to drive.

Dean blinks again, more deliberate. Answers his brother. "Go for it."

Sam looks at him a little funny, like his voice came out wrong or something, but Dean doesn't dwell on it. He rolls back over, closes his eyes. He's still not used to sleeping in a bed again.

"Wake me when you're done."

Too soon after, Sam is shaking him back awake. It's a mistake, and Dean's glad he hasn't been sleeping with a knife under his pillow lately, no matter how badly he wants to. Still, the grip he'd had on Sam's throat wasn't loose, and he only stops apologizing because something catches his eye. The ghostly boy blinks at him expectantly, still standing at the edge of his bed.

Dean ignores him. He's been seeing things, lately. Mostly Cas- just flashes of an angel who isn't there, who won't ever be coming back. This is nothing different. Dean takes his time in the shower and turns the water as hot as it will go. If it lasts long enough, he figures it might break the skin, maybe sear it black. Inevitably, the hot water runs out in less than five minutes. His skin itches for the rest of the day.

The young boy's ghost hums Metallica from the backseat.

* * *

After a couple days, it starts talking.

They're alone, just him and the ghostly boy left behind in the motel room. Sam is running leads, and Dean is supposed to be doing more research here, is supposed to be figuring out where Samuel Bard is buried. He doesn't like that this particular ghost shares a name with his little brother. Still, the laptop is open, powered up. He's sitting at a small table near the door, and his fingers are hitting keys.

" _I remember everything,"_ says the boy, eyes big and round. He's standing near the bathroom door on the opposite side of the room, just watching.

Dean draws in a sharp, stuttered breath, fingers frozen over the keyboard.

" _You get all your memories when you die. Every single one. Good and bad and ugly."_

Dean's died before, but he's never _really_ been a ghost. He doesn't know how it works, but it must be different than what he's experienced for himself. Still, he imagines it has to be better than Hell. As far as ugly goes, those are memories he could stand to lose. Purgatory's not far behind.

"I'm sorry," Dean says. His lip quivers a little and he bites the inside of his cheek on the words, swears under his breath at the unexpected flare of pain. The kid's eyebrow quirks, like they're in on a joke together now.

" _Sorry for what?"_ he asks. Folds his hands together like a prison guard. The motion is unaccusing. Just a guy doing a job. Just a ghost haunting the guy who got him killed. His voice is different, more subdued than Dean remembers it being when they'd first met.

"Everything," Dean whispers. The screen of the laptop goes dark, and Dean catches sight of his own reflection staring back. He closes it, slow and controlled, stands up from the table he's been leaning over. He turns away from the ghost and stares at the motel room door. Thinks about leaving, but knows it'll just follow him. He sits back down, lowers his head and breathes.

" _You don't have to be sorry for_ everything _,"_ the ghost says. It moves to sit on the bed closest to the door. Looks out the window. _"Just some things."_

Dean lifts his head.

" _You just never should've left. That's all."_ The ghost looks at his shoes and shrugs a little, as though Dean had merely forgotten to buy him some ice cream.

"I thought it was safe," Dean says. "I thought...I thought _you_ were safe. If I'd known there was still… I never would've…"

He chokes on the rest of the useless words and stares at his hands, because if he looks at the kid, he'll see how his feet don't dangle off the side of the bed, but instead rest squarely on the floor. How he's sprouted so tall, so fast just like Sam did. How he won't grow any taller.

Dean doesn't move for a long time. He realizes it only when he hears the purr of the Impala outside, has to blink furiously and whip the laptop open again before Sam makes it in the door.

"I know where Samuel's buried," Sam says the moment he's closed it behind him.

"Good," replies Dean, rising from his chair with stiff legs and an uneven pounding in his chest. "Let's light 'im up."

When it's done, Sam practically has to drag Dean away from the flames.

* * *

" _You don't seem happy,"_ the ghost-kid says to him a few days later.

Sam's grabbing snacks from the gas station convenience store while Dean fills the tank. This time the ghost is leaned against the back of the car, not far from where Dean's fiddling with the gas cap. The hunter's fingers spasm a little, still not quite used to having his invisible guest spew out observations. Mostly, the kid keeps quiet. Just hums along to the music Dean plays and smiles a little, still acting like they've got some inside joke going. Dean wishes he knew what that joke could _possibly_ be. Then again, maybe he doesn't.

Dean knows this is different from the other hallucinations he's been having. He knows he should probably tell Sam. Probably soon. Dean reaches for the gas nozzle and starts filling the tank.

" _You're not gonna answer me?"_ the ghost says after a too-long pause.

"Wasn't a question," Dean volleys, not making eye contact. He's watching the numbers on the screen climb. The kid scoffs.

" _For real, though,"_ the ghost insists. _"I've been..._ observing _for a while now. And you seem miserable."_

Dean rolls his eyes and stares straight ahead, wishing the tank full . "Maybe that's because I'm being haunted."

" _Nah. I've been watching you for longer than you know,"_ the ghost says, shaking his head. _"Takes a while to break through the veil, after all. Plus I didn't find you for a long time. You were somewhere else, huh? Somewhere bad?"_

Dean whips his head around to face the spirit, stunned. "You've been...how long have you…" he stops, takes a deep breath. "I mean how long since you…?"

" _Since I got eaten alive, you mean?"_

Dean flinches, paling considerably. "That's… don't."

" _That's what happened."_ The kid shrugs, that stupid, nonchalant raising of his shoulders. Dean wonders if this is how Sam felt in the year before Dean's deal came due; all the times Dean cast aside his own death like a pair of dirty socks never meant to make it to their next motel room.

Dean shakes his head, eyes burning. "I don't...you…"

" _Gotta be over a year now, I think,"_ the kid says, saving Dean from having to form a coherent sentence, of which he seems incapable at the moment. _"Time doesn't mean as much once you're dead, but I think that's how long it's been."_

Dean forgets to breathe. _Over a year._ Memories attack him, harsh and horrible. "Your mom…"

" _Oh, you remember my mom, do ya?"_ the kid quips, eyebrows raised suggestively.

Dean just stares. He's not sure what expression is on his face, but he imagines it's brimming with at least some of the grief pooling inside his stomach, because the boy's ghost seems to immediately regret his words. His face softens, making him look even younger.

" _Sorry. Sorry,"_ he says. His tone shifts a little. _"Look...pull yourself together, okay? Your brother's coming back."_

Dean sniffs and straightens automatically.

"They didn't have ranch-flavo…" Sam pauses at the passenger side, a bag of Jim's Original Beef Jerky held over the hood of the car as an offering. There's a plastic bag in his other hand, no doubt filled with something a bit healthier. "Dean?" he asks, dropping both bags to his side and staring dumbly at his brother from across the car. "Dean, what's wrong?"

If this had been last year, Dean knows Sam would've already been right next to him, grabbing at his shoulders and tilting his chin up and checking him over or something. But things are different now. Dean knows he's changed, knows he's still holding onto an ugly rage directed at his little brother, the guy who didn't look for him. Most of him knows that's not fair, that there's no way Sam could've known where he'd ended up. But there's a tension there that can't be dispelled, and Sam can feel it.

Dean clears his throat.

"Nothing's wrong," he lies. He's not sure what Sam's seeing in his expression, but he does his best to school it.

"You look like you...I don't know. The 'seen a ghost' expression's never worked for us, has it?" Sam asks. It's supposed to be a joke, but he says it like he's not sure they can _make_ jokes anymore. Something pinches inside Dean's stomach at that, but he can't care about that right now. The ghost sitting on the end of the Impala gives him a pitying look. Dean has seen many echoes of that expression. He forgets to answer Sam.

"Dean…" Sam says again. It's not a sentence that's ever needed an ending. Sam usually just waits for his big brother to fill in the rest for him. But Dean doesn't. Not this time. He just rubs a hand over his eyes and faces Sam again.

"Can we go?" Dean doesn't wait for a reply, just grabs the now silent nozzle from the tank and shoves it back into its rightful place.

He doesn't put the music back on because he doesn't think he can bear to listen to the kid singing along.

* * *

This isn't some kind of self-flagellation. He didn't seek ghost-kid out. As far as Dean's concerned, all this is is exactly what he had coming. There are some things he doesn't deserve to keep buried, and this has undoubtedly become one of them. This is maybe one of the biggest.

He knows he'll tell Sam eventually, just not yet. Because once Sam knows, it'll be over.

Once Sam knows, they'll have to burn the body.

* * *

" _You gotta go see my mom,"_ ghost-kid says one day, maybe a week later, and Dean almost loses it before he remembers Sam is sitting in the car right next to him. They're on their way to take care of a vampire's nest outside Chubbuck, Idaho, and Dean's been thinking about how it could be Benny. Another thing he has yet to tell his brother about.

He's not thinking about the ghost in the backseat, who hasn't spoken in at least a few days. When he does, Dean catches his eye in the rearview mirror and shakes his head minutely, once.

" _Please, Dean? Please just go check on her. She's so sad all the time. She cries, and most days she won't get out of bed. You could help, I know you could."_

"Dean?" Sam asks, but Dean doesn't reply, doesn't say anything even when the car is choking on gravel, shifted violently into Park and Dean's no longer in it, is breathing hard and taking deliberate strides down the deserted road, as far as he can get from that backseat and the remainder of what used to be a fourteen-year-old kid.

"Dean!" Sam is coming after his brother (of course he is, they're always supposed to come for each other, no matter what's going on between them and how many secrets Dean's keeping or how many times he's wished, guiltily, for the simplicity of Purgatory again) but today that truth feels like a curse and Dean doesn't want it. He starts running, boots kicking up gravel as he lengthens his stride, lets his feet take him as fast as they want to. Purgatory was get going or get dead, and Dean can feel the distance between himself and his brother growing wider.

He stops before he's ready because he'd never be ready and because he knows Sam will just keep following him, will always follow him except for the one time he didn't. And he knows he can't run from this anymore.

Dean straightens and interlaces his hands above his head, getting his breath back. The ghost is sitting on the ground beside him as if he's been there the whole time, pulling up the grass with his pale hands.

"I can't," Dean says, eyes large and pleading. "You know I can't go see her. She won't...she doesn't know..."

" _It doesn't matter,"_ the boy interrupts, watching the dead grass fly out from between his fingers and swirl out into the steady breeze. _"She needs someone, and I'm not there anymore. You're the next best thing."_

"You know that's not true," Dean whispers, moisture in his eyes. "You know I'd only make things worse for her, same as last time."

" _We needed you,"_ says the kid, his own eyes wide and glistening.

"It's not that simple," Dean insists. The tears are coming now, and so is Sam. He doesn't try to stop either. "I thought you were _safe_."

"Dean, who? Who's safe?" Sam has reached him, is huffing out short breaths of his own with his hands hovering just over Dean's shoulders, as if he's afraid to touch him.

"Sam…" Dean says, shattered eyes finding Sam's. It's all he can say. He reaches for his little brother, curls a fist inside his t-shirt. Sam must've ditched the flannel during the unexpected race along the roadside.

"Dean?" Sam sounds lost and scared and small and young and it only makes it worse because he is the echo of the dead boy who still sits in the grass below them with his eyes overflowing, looking up at Dean with two fistfulls of grass clutched inside his palms.

Sam pulls Dean into him, and Dean lets him, but only for a moment. He rests his forehead against Sam's chest briefly, centering himself. And then he pulls in a breath and pushes himself back to look his brother in the eye.

"I have...I have to tell you something."

The explanation is short. To the point. There's a ghost. A kid. It's following him. It's been following him for a while now, and Dean hasn't said anything about it until now.

"Why the hell not?" is the first thing Sam wants to know. They're not touching anymore, Dean's fist finally unfurled from Sam's shirt, Sam's fingers no longer locked around Dean's forearms.

"I couldn't. I couldn't tell you." Dean casts a glance down to the spirit in question. The boy is no longer crying openly, but there is still wetness on his cheeks and now he's glaring at Dean, lip curled.

" _She can't see me, Dean. She's sad and alone and I can't do anything to fix it. But you could. You_ owe _me that much!"_ he yells, and Dean closes his eyes for a moment. Opens them before he speaks.

"No one can fix this," he says.

"Dean, fix _what_?" Sam is at the beginnings of panic now, shoulders stiff as he runs a hand through his hair and tries to fill the spot of 'calm and rational brother,' a position which Dean has suddenly and violently vacated. Dean's not actually sure he's held the position since before Purgatory.

" _You left me! You left me behind and something_ got _me, Dean! Just like you promised it wouldn't!"_

Dean lets out a low groan, smashes his hands over his ears to drown it out. "Stop. Please stop."

Sam startles beside him, whips his eyes down to where Dean's gaze is fixated on the dead grass, looking to find what he can't see.

"He's here?" Sam asks. "Right now?"

Dean nods slowly. "He doesn't leave."

"We have to burn him, Dean. We have to find the bones."

Dean sighs, letting his hands fall from his ears. "We can't."

"Why not?" Sam's concern is quickly morphing into frustration, but Dean knows not to take it personally. It's born of fear, after all. And he knows his barely-there explanations aren't helping, even as he sputters out the next one.

"Because I...this is different."

Sam squeezes the bridge of his nose with his fingers, trying not to boil over. "Look, Dean, if you're thinking this is something you deserve, that this is some kind of penance? I promise you, it isn't. Whatever mistakes you made, whatever the story is behind this...this kid, I know you did the best you could. Because it's _you_."

Dean shakes his head, takes a few more steps down the road, away from the Impala. Behind him, the ghost gets to his feet and follows after. The sun is almost directly overhead, blinding and insistent. "You don't know what you're talking about, Sam."

Dean is turned away, but he knows Sam has thrown his hands up in frustration because he hears when they come back down to slap against his jeans. "Well then enlighten me," Sam urges. "Tell me why we can't handle this the way we normally would."

"This is different," Dean repeats. As if saying it twice will defer any further questions on the subject. It's far from the case.

"Different _how_?"

" _God, just tell him."_ The ghost is approaching anger at approximately the same speed as Sam. Dean saw the similarities between the two of them then, and he sees them now.

He turns around to face them both. "He...this kid. I know him."

"Of course you do," Sam coaxes, voice gentle now that he's getting his brother to spill. "Dean, you remember them all. He's...it's the gig, man. We can't save everyone. You know we can't save everyone."

Dean shakes his head in frustration. "But I did. I did save him. I left."

"So then, what? The monster wasn't really dead? Came back once you were gone?" Sam is grasping at straws, trying to make something stick. Dean laughs humorlessly. It is an ugly sound, like something dead has slithered out from between his teeth. Something that was never supposed to see the light of day. There is a pause in which everything is quiet. The wind shifts a little, rustling the trees along the roadside, but that's all.

"It was me, Sam," Dean says finally. "I was the monster. And I needed to go."

Sam's fingers twitch. "Dean...I don't understand."

Dean laughs again, but it's not quite as ugly. He smiles sadly, runs a hand over his face.

"He wants me to go see his mom, you know? Go talk to her."

Sam is thrown. Dean watches as Sam grapples with what this might mean, sees the response form on his brother's tongue and the effort it takes to string together what he thinks might be the right words.

"Is that...is that what you want to do? Would that put him to rest? To go see her?"

"No," Dean says mirthlessly, catching the eyes of the dead boy standing silent on the dead grass. The boy's chin quivers. "She doesn't know me anymore. She doesn't remember."

Dean watches as the ghost moves towards him, pausing just a few inches away. He reaches for Dean, a substanceless hand that somehow, in some way, makes contact with Dean's shoulder. He shudders a little at the almost-touch, blinking fast.

Across from him, Sam is shaking his head in confusion.

"I don't underst…?"

And then Sam stops, and Dean knows he's figured it out. Knows he doesn't have to say the next words, but it feels like he owes them to the kid standing beside him, transparent hand patting at the back of Dean's neck in a gesture of backwards sympathy that makes him sick to his stomach. Dean looks at Sam and tries not to break all over again. It's the first time he lets himself think the name, much less say it. It slides off his tongue like damnation.

"The ghost." His throat catches. "It's Ben Braeden."

* * *

 **I'm sure quite a few of you figured out who this 'mystery ghost' was long before the end reveal. I was going for something less obvious, but no matter how much I fiddled with the story, I couldn't find a way to make it** **work out that way. Regardless, I hope you're at least a little bit hooked by this point =).**


	2. Chapter 2

**So I know the first chapter _did_ technically say Chapter 1, but I never actually specified that this is a multi-chapter story. But...it is! Anyway, we're back. I'll be posting every Wednesday! **

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Chapter 2~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

Lisa Braeden is one of those people who still has a landline. Said it was because her mom refused to memorize a new phone number for her, and would only ever call the house. She dragged it along with her on every move, kept the number and the plan the same no matter what.

Dean deleted that number two days after he'd left her and her son behind in a hospital with memories of a car crash that never happened. After he'd dialed four times in one day, just to hear the voicemail.

Lisa's cell number, on the other hand, stays nestled in his contact list.

Just in case.

"Dean. You...I think you should call."

They're still standing on the side of the road with the sun beating down, and Dean can practically feel his skin sizzling off. There was no sunlight in Purgatory.

"And say what?" he argues. "She won't know me. It won't mean anything. It'll just make everything worse. I mean Ben...her kid is gone, Sam. You understand that? He's gone, and I did that."

Sam huffs a sigh, like he's about to explain an extremely simple concept to the town idiot. "Dean, no. This isn't on you."

Dean almost laughs, but he's afraid it will sound the way it did before, so he just rolls his eyes. "Oh yeah? Tell that to the kid. He wouldn't be here if it wasn't directly my fault, Sam."

"You haven't asked, have you?"

Dean stares back, uncomprehending.

"You haven't asked him how it happened. How he died."

"That's not…"

"Don't you dare say that's not relevant," Sam cuts him off. "You've been beating yourself up for weeks, and you don't even know _why_."

"I know why."

"Ben? Ben, can you hear me?" Sam yells into the sky, flinging his arms around almost comically. "Tell Dean how it happened, please. Tell him how you died."

Dean turns to face Ben again, sorrow etched into every line of his face.

"You wanna know?" Ben asks.

Dean swallows and nods. He really doesn't.

"Well I guess I gotta start a while back," Ben says. He pauses for a moment, and Dean watches as he searches for the right memories. "I don't really know when it happened, but something changed. We got back from the hospital after the...car accident, and there was just something. Something wasn't right. Something was missing."

Sam shifts on his feet, almost reaches for his brother, staring down at nothing. "Dean?"

"Shh, Sam. Just...wait. He's...just wait."

Sam nods his understanding, isn't quite sure what to do with himself while his brother holds a silent conversation with a ghost. He kicks at a small stone at his feet, watches it skitter out into the road.

"He can hear it, too," Ben says. "I can make him see me. Hear me. It takes more effort, because we don't have as much of a connection. It's like Wifi or something. But if you want, he can listen."

Dean hesitates, then nods again.

It takes a moment, but then Ben is flickering in front of him, face pained.

"Ben!" Dean shouts, but the name hasn't fully left his lips before the flickering stops. Dean is about to ask if it worked, but then he hears Sam's gasp.

"Dean…?" Sam asks, unsure.

Dean shoots a quick look over his shoulder, sees that Sam's focus has shifted to the spot where Ben is standing. He nods, almost to himself, and then turns back to the kid. "Go ahead, Ben"

The ghost smiles a little, like a grimace. "Something was missing," he repeats. "I think Mom and I both needed to know what it was. So we went looking. Guess I found it first."

"Found what?" Sam asks, and then seems to regret it, as if he's interrupted some sacred moment.

"Monsters," Ben answers, matter-of-fact.

Dean lets out a breath. "Ben…"

"I started salting the doors at night," he continues. "Kept holy water under the bed. Mom thought I was nuts, but she let me do it. She was distracted. Looking, too, for that missing piece. She started drinking."

Ben sees the look on Dean's face and amends quickly. "Nothing crazy, you know. Just a glass of whiskey with dinner every once in awhile. Like she was trying to remember the taste of something long gone. We had these pictures hanging above the counter in the kitchen, you remember?

Dean nods. He remembers. "She'd stare at them for hours sometimes, after she thought I'd gone to bed. Me and her at a neighbor's barbeque. Her at the Art Museum. Me with engine grease all over my face standing next to a pretty, black car. Pictures you used to be in."

Sam makes a noise from somewhere behind his brother, a little huff barely heard on the wind. Dean wonders what Sam is thinking, if that lost year with Lisa and Ben is becoming clearer to him now. He wonders whether or not that's a good thing. Ben continues, unheeded.

"See, you can't really erase things like that, Dean," he says, almost like a scolding. "I mean, you _can_. But the feeling is still there. It sat inside of us for so long, it drove us crazy. I started researching, started looking up explanations for the unknown. Deja vu. Glitches in the Matrix. Unexplained events. It was just a small leap into monsters after that. I accepted all of it as truth, started doing whatever I could to protect us from ever losing anything ever again. I still didn't know what we'd lost, obviously. Neither of us did. But we knew something was gone, something we couldn't get back."

"I...Ben, when I...when Cas did that- I thought it would be better," Dean stutters, voice almost a whisper. He runs a hand along the side of his face, brushing away the sweat that has settled there. It's a warm day. A nice day. "I thought you guys could get on with your lives. Could just go back to the way things were before I came along and screwed it up. You didn't deserve that life: always being on the run, always looking over your shoulder. I didn't want that for you. Or for Lisa."

Ben purses his lips, shakes his head. "Doesn't matter what you _wanted_ , Dean," he says. "That wasn't your choice to make. Those weren't your memories to take away. You did more than just erase yourself that day, Dean. You erased who we became _with_ you. And that? Who I was with you around? That was the best I ever was. I think Mom would say the same about herself. Sure, you were a mess and you _made_ a mess, but you were family. You made us better."

"Ben…" Dean doesn't know why he starts a sentence he can't finish.

"Do you want to hear the rest?" Ben asks, impatient.

Dean huffs, willing himself to regain some control over his emotions. He'd ignored them for an entire year, and the transition back to their version of normalcy has been more difficult than he'd ever admit to Sam. At the moment he's simply fighting to stay upright, fighting not to collapse under the weight of all this crap that's been dumped on him, all this new guilt he can't even fully comprehend yet. Distantly, he feels Sam's presence behind him. Enough space between them to afford some privacy, but close enough that all Dean has to do is turn around and find his eyes, and he knows Sam will be beside him in the next moment.

Dean doesn't turn around. "Yes. Tell me."

"Things started coming back. Little pieces, nothing complete," Ben continues. He starts pacing a little, as if self-conscious of having an audience after being invisible for so long. "That long, black car. A blurred face singing along with me to Led Zeppelin. The feeling of kernels between my toes when I'd forget about the salt line outside my door and step right into it. Mom got glimpses, too. We'd talk about it all the time. It became an obsession. She got a clearer picture of you than I did, I think. I was always jealous of that. We started calling you 'Soldier Man' because Mom said you walked like you were always at war."

Behind him, Dean can almost feel Sam flinch. Ben doesn't notice, lost in the memories of him and his mom.

"We couldn't get your face quite right. Tried imagining it together. Even tried to draw it a couple times. But it never really got past that." Ben chuckles a little to himself, a sound that doesn't fit the story he's telling. "We're shitty artists," he explains when he sees the question on Dean's face. He grows serious again, the smile fading as he speaks. "And we never made the connection between you and the guy from the hospital, the one who said he hit our car. At least, not for a while."

Dean nods. "So what changed?"

"You got famous," Ben smiles. Dean blinks at him in confusion. "You and Sam, you were all over the news. Killing people."

Dean flinches. "The Leviathan with our faces."

"Sure. Whatever they're called," Ben agrees easily. "We saw, and we just _knew_ you. It didn't all come flooding back like some miracle cure, but it was enough."

A car whizzes by along the opposite side of the road, startling all three of them. Dean's fingers wrap around the gun in his waistband, momentarily thrown when he doesn't instead feel his Purgatory blade. Ben stares at him, and Dean pulls himself back, forces his body to relax. He lets his hand drop back down to his side and clears his throat, embarrassed. He doesn't look back to see Sam's reaction, instead jumps to fill the silence left behind by the car's fading engine.

"Ben, you still haven't told me…"

"You're rushing along to something you don't even want to hear about. Just wait, okay? I'm getting there." Ben interrupts.

Dean nods, and tries not to think about how much more mature Ben seems since the last time Dean saw him. How he carries himself taller, chooses his words with more confidence. Practically a man, Dean thinks, and stops.

"We started following the story. We both knew it wasn't really you. Wasn't even a question," Ben says, making sure to catch Dean's eye. "I wanted to track you down- the real you- but Mom said it was too dangerous. She thought maybe you were both possessed, that the Sam and Dean we were seeing on our screens _were_ the real you, just trapped inside your own bodies. She told me to let it go, that there was nothing we could do for you. But I had to try. Dean, I _had_ to try."

Sam gapes at the boy. "You found us? Fake us?" he asks. It doesn't feel like as much of an intrusion this time.

Ben just nods. "He looked just like you," he replies. But he's only looking at Dean. "Same smile and everything. I only knew I was wrong once I'd cornered them in that alley, started reading off an exorcism."

"Oh, Ben," Sam murmurs sadly.

"It was over pretty quick," Ben says, as if that will make it better. "I guess they were hungry."

Dean chokes, holds a fist over his mouth like he's about to lose breakfast, lunch, and dinner all at once. Ben wrinkles his nose. Behind them, Sam takes a few steps forward until he's right behind Dean. He rests a hand on his brother's shoulder.

"Ben…" Sam begins, and Dean feels the rumble of his brother's voice through the fabric of his shirt.

"You're going to ask me how I'm here," Ben predicts, looking at Sam now. "You're wondering what to burn if all my bones are sitting inside the stomach of some Shapeshifter-thing that could be anywhere. And the answer is that I don't know. I just know I came back. One second there was nothing, and the next I'm laying on my bed, and I remember everything, all those memories that got erased. And I walk downstairs and Mom's eyes are puffy. And she can't see me. But I felt this pull, this force. Somehow I knew it was leading me to you, Dean. Only problem was I couldn't find you. Not for a long time. And then one day, _boom_. You were in a stranger's truck, covered in dirt, and I was sitting right next to you. You still couldn't see me, but I knew one day you would." Ben's looking at Dean again, but Dean can't meet his eyes. "I knew you'd find a way to make it even just a little bit better."

At the last of Ben's words, Dean sinks to the ground. He's got his head in his hands and he's balancing on his heels on the side of the road, and he's trying so hard to breathe but nothing's flowing right and it feels like he might really be sick this time but he isn't. Sam is there, holding him up, but Dean is still falling and tumbling and reeling, and he doesn't think anyone could catch him now. Not even his brother.

It stops, after a while. Everything does.

Dean doesn't even know if anyone talks, if Sam even mumbles a word of advice or comfort or whatever he'd be able to offer in this situation. He just curls over himself and blocks everything out for a second, tries to figure out what the hell he's supposed to do now. He figures the next step is probably to straighten up, get a goddamn grip, so he does that, and he feels Sam help a little bit, but not too much. They make their way back to the Impala, and no one breaks the silence except for the humming of another car that slows a little as it passes, the driver leaning curiously out his window to catch a glimpse of the action. He moves on without asking if they need any help.

Sam has a hand on his brother as they walk, and Dean thinks this is the most they've touched since he's been back.

Ben trails behind, unsure of where he fits in this dynamic. Sam shuffles Dean to the passenger seat, and Dean doesn't argue. Ben vanishes and reappears in his now-customary position in the backseat without a word. Silence holds them.

"Dean," Sam starts, breaking it softly.

"Sam," Dean says. "I...We have to go see Lisa."

* * *

 **A/N: I thought about this story for a while, and I've decided to write it based on the idea that Cas somehow wiped Dean not only from Ben and Lisa's memories, but from everyone Dean met and interacted with during his year with her. Otherwise the two of them would constantly be fielding questions from friends/neighbors about where Lisa's cute boyfriend Dean went, and that seemed like a pretty big hole, so I just decided to fill it up. So yeah, that's what we're going with, and that'll be important a bit later on. =).**

 **Thanks for reading! Happy Hump Day!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A little late in posting today- my apologies! Enjoy!**

~~~~~~~~~~~~ Chapter 3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The drive takes three days.

Dean doesn't stop fidgeting. He drives most of it, but even when Sam insists on taking a turn and Dean's passed out in the passenger seat within minutes, his fingers never stop twitching.

Sam thinks about turning around, heading back in the opposite direction. They'd called Garth to find someone else to take care of the vampire nest, but they could find a haunting or a zombie or a rugaru instead. Sam knows it's not a solution, but ever since his brother came back, Dean's seemed most at peace when he's hunting something. It's disturbing and it's wrong, but if that's what it takes to bring Dean back and away from this haunted memory of the Braeden's, Sam will gladly support thrashing some monsters apart, Purgatory style. He knows how that sounds. But he also knows that going to see Lisa right now is almost definitely a mistake.

Because Sam understands loss well. He knows that seeing Dean will do nothing to ease Lisa's pain. She's lost her son, and nothing's going to fix that. Especially because Sam knows that the moment she sees Dean, Lisa will understand that she's lost him, too.

Dean's _different_. He's tense and wild-eyed and _lethal_ in ways he hadn't been before. If Sam knows anything about Lisa (and he'd like to think he knows at least a little), she'll see it right away, even through her grief. It might send her over the edge. It might make things a million times worse.

But it's two against one.

Sam glances into the rearview, catches the ghost staring back at him. He slides a look to his brother next, sleeping fitfully.

"Can I ask you something?" the hunter says to Ben, flicking his eyes back to the road.

"Sure," the kid shrugs.

Sam clears his throat, tries to think about how best to phrase his question. "Usually the ghosts...the spirits we run into. They're not like you. They've died horrifically, same as you, and they can't let go. They get violent."

Ben shrugs again, and all Sam can see is Dean. _Come on Sammy, spit it out already._

"So why aren't you? How have you managed to still be...you?"

Ben snorts, light and airy, and Sam shivers at the innocence of it. "You're gonna laugh," Ben says.

"I doubt it," Sam replies. He hasn't felt like laughing in a long time.

"Yoga," says Ben. And Sam retracts his statement. He actually chuckles a little, a startled sound that has Dean shifting in the seat next to him. Sam waits until he's sure Dean hasn't woken before he speaks.

"Yoga?" he asks, still smiling.

"Told ya you'd laugh," Ben says. He seems almost smug about it. "But yeah. Mom taught me some stuff when I was little, and I'd go to some of her classes before I got too cool for her, or whatever." There is a wistful sadness to the words, the kind of nostalgia that comes with knowing better now. Now that it's too late.

"Huh," is all Sam says.

"And I knew I had to make it here," Ben continues, unheeded. "To him. When it all came flooding back...when my memories found me again and I started to be pulled in his direction. My mom can't see me, but I knew he'd be able to if I just stayed for long enough."

"But I can see you too, Ben," says Sam. "Not that I'm condoning you drop in on your mom like...this. But how could she not…?"

"I don't know," Ben shakes his head. His eyes darken. "Maybe part of me knows I can't _let_ her see me. Maybe, as much as I want to say goodbye, I know it wouldn't do any good. Maybe I'm stopping myself from breaking through. I just...she can't be in pain anymore. I know Dean can help, even just a little. So I had to stay in control. Otherwise he'd kill me before he had the chance to see my mom again."

Sam runs a hand over his mouth and does his best not to shake his head. He sighs. "Ben. About that. I don't think Dean seeing your mom again is going to do much good," he cautions. "The truth is, there is no way to make this better. I understand your struggle, I really do. But I think the best thing to do is just to let go."

"No," Ben's anger is immediate, and Sam feels the temperature drop by a few degrees. His fingers tense around the wheel "I'm not letting go until I know she'll be okay. If it was your mom, what would _you_ do?"

Dean shifts again, and Sam can tell he's waking up this time. Sam shoots Ben another look from the rearview and nods his reluctant understanding.

"How close are we?" Dean mumbles, still coming up from sleep. "And why is it so damn cold in here?"

* * *

Hours later, they're outside Lisa's house. The one the three of them had moved into together.

There is a sobering quietness in the Impala now, broken only by the _flick_ , _flick_ of Dean's still-twitching fingers. Ben, impatient as he's been throughout the drive, isn't making a sound. Still as death in the backseat, and the thought makes Sam wince internally.

Dean breathes deep. "Ben. This was a mistake," he says. "I can't go in."

"If you don't go in, you'll never get rid of me," comes Ben's voice. He sounds almost threatening, if a fourteen-year-old could be such a thing. Sam remembers Dean at fourteen, and he knows it's possible. "I won't leave you alone. Ever."

"That doesn't sound any different than how you were before," Dean jokes, but it falls flat in the hollowed out space between them. "Wouldn't be half bad."

He twists around in the driver's seat to get a clear look at Ben, eyes crinkling into something that isn't quite a smile, but wants to be. He's still running with the joke that isn't a joke. "Whattya say, kid? Wanna hunt with us?"

Ben smiles back, a genuine grin that almost brings some light back to his sunken face. "I'd love that more than anything. You know I would."

He leaves it at that. Just waits. _Smart kid_ , Sam can't help but thinking. Letting Dean come to the decision on his own, even when it's already been made for him. Dean hesitates for only a moment longer, shoulder slung over the Impala's seat before he sighs, a low almost-hum that sings in his chest and vibrates out over his lips like something he'd never really say aloud. He nods to himself, just once. And then he's climbing out of the car, staring out across the street at the house that seems like it belongs in someone else's memories.

"Dean?" Sam hesitates, closing the passenger side door and coming to stand beside Dean. He doesn't look at his brother, directs his eyes to the house, looming in front of them like a challenge. "Do you want me to come with?"

Dean's jaw clenches, and Sam holds his breath. The older hunter turns to face Sam slowly. "Sure, Sammy," he says with a sad upward twitch of his mouth. "Sure."

* * *

 **See you next week!**


	4. Chapter 4

**I got a request from the wonderful ngregory763 to post the next chapter a bit early, so I've decided to do just that. Your support means a lot and I'm happy to oblige! Enjoy!**

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Chapter 4 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She answers on the second knock.

There's this long moment between those knocks where nothing seems real, where Dean understands exactly where he is and what he's about to do, but he can't fathom why on earth he would've actually shown up to do it. It had seemed so obvious three days ago: Ben needed him to go see Lisa, so he would go see Lisa. They've seen this type of thing before. Ghosts who aren't driven by anger, but by loss. Ghosts who can't move on until they've found a way to say goodbye.

And Dean thought he could do this. He thought he could help Ben say goodbye. But in that brief moment between knocks, he knows he's made a huge mistake.

They've done this so many times, him and Lisa. He's lost track of how often he's knocked on her door and she's opened it and they've looked at each other from across the threshold just like this. Just the way she's looking at him right now. Always the same, but so, so different this time, with all this extra space between them and the invisible ghost of her dead son standing beside him and his not-so-invisible little brother waiting just a few paces behind, not quite sure if Dean meant it when he said Sam should come with.

She looks beautiful, just like he knew she would. Even with the shroud of grief hanging over her.

She doesn't say anything for a long time. Just stares at him and shakes her head. Dean watches as she tries to form words and can't. She finally settles on one:

"You..."

"Hi Lis," he says, same way he's said it those hundred times before, same way he said it in his head when he imagined this moment under such very different circumstances.

Lisa makes a choking noise, a sharp inhale, and then she slams the door in his face so quickly, it almost catches him on the nose. Dean hadn't even realized how far forward he'd been leaning.

There's a moment's pause, and then Ben _laughs_. Looks right up at Dean and just snickers at him, the same way Sam used to when they were knee deep in a prank war and he'd managed to sew the necks of all Dean's t-shirts closed. Dean's mouth twitches a little, just at the sight of the kid's smile, but that smile fades pretty quickly, and then Ben just looks sad. He looks like he wants to say something, but doesn't know what. He blinks up at Dean and he stares and opens his mouth, and that's about the time the door reopens.

* * *

She ushers Sam and Dean inside as though she's the sole chaperone on a school field trip, intent on making sure everyone gets back on the bus. Doesn't say anything, just guides them into the living room and gestures for them to sit down before disappearing, returning moments later with a beer for both of them and one for her. Ben takes a seat on the edge of the couch where Sam and Dean have settled. He doesn't say anything either, just watches as his mom hands off the beers and then steps back, looking at the two of them. Dean squirms under the scrutiny. He can barely meet her eyes. Beside him, Sam is stoic as ever, though there is a hint of the old puppy-dog-eye routine evident in his expression. Dean wonders how the kid can still get away with it, even after all this time.

"Okay," says Lisa, voice only just quavering. She snags the top off her beer and takes a long sip. "Explain."

Dean clears his throat, but it's Sam who speaks first. Dean knows it's because Sam's caught sight of his face. He's not sure what his expression is, but he knows Sam's assuming he couldn't make it through a full sentence at the moment. Hell, Dean's not too sure of that himself.

"Look, Lisa, we know this must be hard for you," Sam begins. "But please just hear us out. Dean and I…"

"I'd like to hear it from him, if you don't mind," Lisa interrupts, jabbing her beer in Dean's direction. Her gaze finds him then, and he can't look away this time. They stare at each other, and Dean feels Sam shift beside him, watches from the corner of his eye as his little brother stands up from the couch.

"I understand," Sam says, shifting gears easily. He has always had a way of reading the room, of seeing what words need to be said next. Dean envies him that. Tries to send a warning with his eyes that he c _an't actually handle this alone, dammit_ , but Sam doesn't catch it. Or maybe just doesn't want to. Instead, he continues, "This should be a conversation between just the two of you."

Lisa misses it, but Dean sees the way Sam's eyes hover on Ben for a brief moment, eyebrows slightly raised. Ben sighs, and the two of them leave the room together.

Dean's still looking at Lisa, and Lisa's still looking at Dean. He fiddles with the sticker on his beer bottle, thinks about taking a sip. Doesn't.

"I don't really know where to start," he admits, voice low.

Lisa's eyes harden, voice steely. "How about you start with why you left. And how you...how I forgot about you the second you walked out the door."

Dean's head drops and he closes his eyes with a sigh. This is everything he never wanted. To come back into her life like this. To raise questions he could never explain to her. To desecrate whatever she'd begun to rebuild after he'd left.

"I...I heard about Ben." It's as if the news is hitting him all over again. Sitting here, talking with her, Ben invisible and pale and so very _dead_ in the next room over. It makes it all the more real. He chokes a little on the next words, eyes stinging. "I'm so sorry."

Lisa shakes her head, lip quivering. "No," she hisses. "No. You don't get to do that. We're not doing that yet. We're not...you answer my questions first. You owe me that."

Dean tries to raise his head, ends up having to look away again just as quickly. Can't handle her eyes peering into his. She's always seen past his bullshit, into all the things he'd rather keep hidden. She never pushed him with anything but those eyes. Let him wallow in grief when he lost Sam. Let him drink until he passed out. Let him sit at the dinner table with her son, trading stories about their days and not making a big thing of it when all Dean could do was stare at his food and nod along. Never tried to coax a damn word out of him, but Dean always ended up spilling a few too many of them anyway. And now she's pushing, actually pushing for something, and there's no way he won't give it. There's no way he can deny her at least a little bit of what he's taken from her.

"You almost died," he says. He takes a breath, detaches himself from the words that come next. It's easier if he doesn't think about it. If he just reads it off like an exorcism; something he memorized without knowing the meaning behind all the words.

"A demon kidnapped you and Ben. Possessed you. Drove a screwdriver into your stomach and left you to bleed out. At the hospital, they said you wouldn't wake up. And then someone…. someone healed you. Someone from my world. Someone with powers. I asked him to wipe your memories of me so that you could go back to having a normal life. So that you wouldn't be looking over your shoulder all the time, afraid to let Ben walk down the street by himself. I did it to protect you. And then I left."

"You did it to protect me?"

Dean meets her eyes again and nods, hoping she can see the truth there. "Yes."

"Okay," says Lisa. She is deceptively calm, but Dean recognizes the tone from the time Ben had forgotten to call to say he'd made plans with a friend after school and had taken a different bus. "And why did you believe you had the right to take those memories from me?"

"Lis…"

"No, Dean. No." Lisa starts pacing, making a line from the fireplace before cutting back to Dean. He hears half of what she says without seeing her face, just watches each rotation she makes and listens to the words come. They hit like bricks, and he knows he deserves every one of them. "You can't imagine. You cannot _imagine_ the confusion. All this time, feeling like there's a part of me that's missing. Not understanding _why_. Not being able to fill this pit in my stomach, this feeling that I've _lost_ someone."

"I do," Dean says, finally. He thinks of Cas. Of Sam, more than once. Of all the other names and faces that sit behind his eyelids and haunt his dreams, his every waking moment. "I know what it is to lose someone."

"Not like this," Lisa insists, though she stops pacing, and her eyes have softened a bit when she looks at him, that crippling understanding reflecting off from the dark brown of her pupils. "I'm not denying that you've lost people- too many people- but you were able to grieve them. You were able to say goodbye. I never got that, Dean. Just the vague notion that a vital piece was gone. That I would never be whole again."

Dean shakes his head, runs both hands up over his nose. "I didn't know…" he starts. And he's going to tell her he always knew he needed her more than they needed him, that he was charity and even if it became more than that, it would've never been enough for her. But she stops him and now she's yelling and all Dean can think is that Ben is probably catching some of the words when he shouldn't have to, but there's no way to stop her, so he just takes it.

"Bullshit you didn't know!" she growls. "You meant the world to us. Me and Ben…" she stutters a little over the name. Restarts. "...and he worshipped you. Even when he didn't remember what he was worshipping. It's what got him killed. You're part of what got him killed and I can't forgive you for that. And I don't care why you came back—I need you to go. I need to never see you again."

Dean stands up from the couch as she talks, spreading his arms in apology. "Lisa, please…"

"No, you and your brother need to leave," she says, stepping away from him. "This is me saying goodbye, you understand? So _let_ me. Let me grieve you like I should've been able to years ago. Let me let you go, and never come back."

"I wish it were that simple," Dean says, trying to soften his tone, trying to make himself seem small somehow. Because he sees the way she's positioning herself, the way she's slowly creating distance. He stops leaning towards her, tries to just stand there with his hands at his sides, uncurling empty fists. He's scaring her. He's back after all this time and he knows Lisa might not have all the pieces together yet, but somehow she still knows he's different than he was. Somehow, she can see it.

"It is. It _is_ that simple," Lisa insists, eyes just a little too wide. She thrusts a finger over his shoulder. "You just walk out the door and you don't turn around."

"Lisa. I need you to listen for a second," he tries again. He'd follow her instructions if he could. He doesn't want to stay here in this room, watching her watch him so warily. He doesn't want to be the one doling out more pain for her. "I _did_ come back for a reason, and I can't leave until it's done. It's my job. And it's about Ben."

Lisa makes this face, and it's the worst thing Dean's ever seen. It's a look that says _how dare you. How dare you mention his name to me again_. And it's just so wrong. Because Dean used to say his name all the time. In another life, a million millennia ago. It was: _what time should I pick Ben up today?_ And: _I'll swing by to catch Ben's game after work_ and: _We've got a couple hours before Ben gets home…_

And now he's looking at Lisa and he's remembering it all like it never happened to him, and it's ruining everything and he really, really shouldn't have come.

"Ben is gone, and I don't know what killed him," Lisa says, voice like gravel under the Impala's tires. "I've tried to find it. Believe me, I've tried. So if you're looking for answers…"

"I know what got him, Lisa," he interrupts, trying not to think about her seeking out revenge. Marking maps and drawing lines and losing sleep, searching for the monster that took everything from her. He's trying not to think about who that sounds just like. "And it's already been taken care of."

"You killed it?" she asks, voice misleadingly neutral. Dean thinks she's going to start pacing again, but she doesn't She just rests her beer on top of the mantle and turns around to face him.

"Yes," Dean answers, just as coolly.

"Good," she nods, tone hardening. She folds her hands across her chest. "Then there should be nothing left for you to find here."

Dean sighs. He knows he's lost her. Probably lost her before she shut the door behind them. Probably never had her to begin with. "Lisa, I'm trying to explain. Please…"

"Mom?"

The air slides out of the room on that one word.

Dean's breath catches with it and he almost chokes, turns his head slowly to see Ben as he appears in the entryway. There's an instant where Dean thinks maybe Lisa didn't hear it, this tiny moment where she doesn't move at all. And then the moment ends and Dean knows they're really screwed now because he can't even begin to describe the look on her face, and he'd have thought that after a year of living with her, he had learned to calculate each and every one. She turns, too, to meet that voice, and it is with the dramatic slowness usually reserved for the infamous bullet-dodge scene in a movie. She's turning and she's turning and she's turning and then she's there, looking at her dead son where he stands in the small, curving hallway between the living room and the kitchen.

He's staring at her and she's staring at him and it might've gone on forever that way if not for Sam stumbling into the hall, a look of panic on his face. He skids to a stop almost comically when he sees what's unfolded in his absence (returning from an ill-timed bathroom break, Dean's willing to guess) and it seems as though it's the jolt Lisa needs to finally find her voice.

If Dean could label what heartbreak sounds like, it is the way she says Ben's name.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading. I will post Chapter 5 this Wednesday as per usual! Enjoy the rest of your weekend, everybody.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Happy Hump day, everyone.**

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Chapter 5 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Everyone's shifted.

Ben and Lisa are in the living room now, talking in low voices. Sam and Dean are in the kitchen, not talking at all. Sam's not really sure what to say, and Dean's not offering much. He's leaning back against the countertop, picking at one of the cabinets with those forever-twitching fingers of his, letting tiny slivers of wood float onto the tiled floor and be lost.

"We shouldn't be here, Sam," he says suddenly, not looking at his brother. Fingers still working.

"Maybe...maybe this is what Ben needs?" Sam suggests. "Maybe he just needed to say goodbye to his mom."

"I...we shouldn't have come," Dean insists, tearing off an especially gnarly piece of wood. He seems to realize what he's doing and stops, staring at the sliver in his hand before he lets it fall to join the rest.

"Dean. You know you never could've said no to him." This much Sam knows to be true. Whether or not it was right of them to come, there's no way Dean would ever deny Ben this last thing. "The decision was made the second he asked. I know it's hard to be here. I can't imagine what it's like. But maybe there's a reason. Maybe it's a good one."

Dean sniffs, shifting against the counter. He nods a little, like he wants to agree but can't. From the next room over, Lisa's voice carries down the hall, high and harsh. Dean takes a step forward like he wants to go to her, but stops halfway. Sam watches his brother's back, tension rolling off of it in waves. There is more silence. Dean's the one to break it again.

"Do you think she…?" Dean stops, huffs out a breath. He turns back to face Sam again, eyes a little haunted.

"Think she what, Dean?" Sam asks when his brother fails to finish the thought, just stands there shifting from foot to foot.

"Nothing. Never mind."

"Got nothing to do but talk here, man. If something's bugging you, maybe I can help."

"I mean she never really knew me, you know? So how could she even know if I...if something changed?" Dean asks. " _You_ know it, because we've lived in each other's pockets our whole lives. But with her? I was just a shell, you know? Just grief and not a whole lot else. But she...there was a moment in there. She stepped away from me like she didn't recognize me. Like she was afraid."

Sam's heart drops. "Dean. Lisa knows you could never hurt her."

Dean hums a little, and Sam can't tell if it's an affirmation or not.

"You couldn't," Sam insists, and he means it. "No matter what's changed, that hasn't. I know that much."

Dean's lip twitches a little. "I gotta get some air."

"Dean, wait. Man...wait."

But Dean's already gone, down the hall and out the door before Sam can figure out the words that might make him stay. He knows Purgatory tore away a few pieces of his brother, but it scares Sam to know that Dean might think some of those pieces were the vital ones that defined him. Sam knows better. He _hopes_ he knows better. Sure, Dean has a hard time with mattresses nowadays and Sam hears him pacing the room well into the morning and sometimes he gets overwhelmed staring at a breakfast menu, like he's not sure why it matters as long as it's enough food to fill his stomach and keep him alive. But he's still Dean. In all the ways that matter, he's managed to hold onto himself. Ridiculously, perhaps irrationally, Sam would expect nothing less.

The guilt finds him then, as it always does when he thinks of these things. He should've _looked_. Should've guessed that with their track record, Dean wouldn't have been lucky enough to end up in Heaven. Of course it wouldn't be that simple for them. His thoughts are cut short by Lisa's entrance into the kitchen. She's wiping tears from her eyes, Ben coming into view just a few paces behind.

"Where's Dean?" she sniffs.

"He uh...he stepped out for a minute," Sam answers, suddenly uncomfortable. Lisa has always been a part of Dean that Sam never saw up close. She was a mystery to him, known only as the woman he'd wished could bring his brother happiness in the wake of his absence. Maybe it was wrong to think of her like that, in such one-dimensional terms. Especially now that she's standing in front of him like this, all her layers exposed. It feels like something Sam was never supposed to see.

"Never mind," Lisa says, urging him back to the conversation and her searching eyes. She is pulling herself together right in front of him, each word coming stronger and surer than the last. Sam watches with admiration. "Just. Can you tell me...how do we fix this? How do I help my son?"

Sam sighs, not sure if it's his place. But Dean isn't back yet and Ben is looking at him pleadingly, so Sam answers as best he can. "As difficult as it is, the only thing left to do now is to help Ben let go."

Lisa nods, letting out a low breath. "And why hasn't he done that?"

"Honestly, I don't know," Sam admits. "We thought our visit might do the trick. Sometimes when a spirit can't move on, it's because they feel there's some unfinished business. Ben believed you and Dean had to see each other again. That he might be able to help in some way."

Lisa laughs, low and humorless. "Doesn't seem like that's the solution. So what's next?"

Sam winces a little at that laugh. He thinks for a moment.

"Is there something significant of Ben's?" he asks. "Something his spirit might be latched onto?"

Lisa shrugs, running her tongue along her teeth. "I haven't gotten rid of anything. I haven't...his room is the way it was. I left everything. I couldn't…"

Sam reaches out to touch her arm, cutting her off before she has to say more. "I understand. It's possible he's being tied to something here, but it's strange that he'd be able to travel freely without carrying it with him." Sam lets his hand fall away from her shoulder, turns to Ben. "Ben, do you have anything with you? Something you've been carrying around?"

Ben shakes his head. "Pockets are empty, see?" He turns his pockets inside out. Nothing falls out. Lisa moves to the other side of the counter, leaning low against it. Sam and Ben both turn to face her.

"So… what are the downsides here?" she asks, as if rationalizing an online purchase. "I mean, can't he just stay? At least this way I have a part of him still. At least he's _here_."

Sam is already shaking his head. "But he won't be. Not for long. Eventually, everything you love about him will fade away. He'll become violent, uncontrollable. And if we wait, if he goes dark, there's no guarantee he'll make it into Heaven. We have to end this now. As difficult as it is, he needs to be put to rest."

Lisa closes her eyes."Okay," she whispers. "Okay, I understand." She turns her attention to Ben, renewed grief shining in her eyes. "Ben, sweetheart. If this is about me...if you feel like you can't leave me behind, I want you to know that it's okay. I'll be okay. You can go."

Lisa doesn't see him come in, but Sam catches sight of Dean's reappearance from the corner of his eye. He doesn't acknowledge the entrance, keeps his gaze focused on mother and son. Dean stays quiet in the entryway, watching the exchange with slumped shoulders.

"Mom…" Ben tries.

"Really honey, it's okay," Lisa continues, though her eyes are filling once more. "You know I miss you every day, that I always will. But this is what's best for you."

Ben shakes his head, frustrated. "I...I'm not sure how. There's no glowing light or sign or anything. I don't want to go dark. I don't want to leave either, but I don't want to become...not myself. I'm sorry, Mom. If I knew how, I could try to leave. I just...don't."

"Okay. That's okay sweetie. We'll figure it out." She turns back to Sam. "Right?"

Sam nods, is about to say something when Dean steps fully back into the room.

"Right," he says. All eyes in the room track to him. Lisa swallows thickly.

"I'd like you both to go now," she says, gesturing to the Winchesters. "I'd like to spend the evening with my son. I'll call off work, cancel my evening classes tomorrow. I'd like to just be here with him while I can. We can talk tomorrow."

Sam clears his throat awkwardly. "It uh...it doesn't exactly work that way."

"What do you mean?" Lisa asks, eyes narrowed. Sam's a little embarrassed at how intimidating he finds her when her voice dips like that.

"I mean that if a spirit isn't latched onto an object, that probably means it's latched onto a person. So I'm assuming that if Dean leaves, Ben will, too."

Lisa lets out a sharp huff. "You've got to be kidding me," she practically growls. Dean is silent, features schooled to neutrality, but Sam doesn't miss the tiny flinch Lisa's words evoke. She paces for another moment, eyes finally landing on Ben, even as she addresses the brothers.

"One of you can take the guest room. The other can take the couch," she says, finally.

Sam clears his throat again. "That's very generous of you, but I don't actually have to stay. It's just De…"

"Both of you," Lisa insists, sliding her gaze to Sam. Her voice softens, and her new tone tugs at something deep in Sam's chest that he never visits. "I'm sure you've spent enough of your lives in motel rooms. Take a break for tonight, huh?"

All Sam can do is nod.

"Okay," Lisa says with finality, back to no-nonsense. "Sheets in the guest room are fresh. I'll find some blankets for the couch. Decide amongst yourselves who gets what." A pause. "Ben, come on sweetie."

Ben follows his mom obediently up the stairs, only hesitating for a moment to say goodnight to both of them. Dean nods and smiles a little, but doesn't answer.

"Goodnight, Ben," Sam says for both of them. He waits for Lisa and Ben to disappear fully before he turns back to his brother. Dean is still watching the stairs, a haunted look on his face, and Sam is struck by how painfully familiar all of this must be for him, right down to the offered bed.

"You okay?" he asks, knowing he won't get a real answer.

Dean nods, keeping with his silent streak. He finally speaks a moment later, eyes finally breaking away from where he last saw Lisa and Ben.

"You take the guest room. Out to your left past the stairs, second door," is all he says before shuffling out of the kitchen.

Sam lets him go.

He's not sure how to navigate any of this territory with his brother, especially a brother he sometimes doesn't recognize anymore. There's already so much that's gone unspoken between them, and Sam hates to see the distance grow wider. But he also knows there's not much he can say that will make this easier on Dean. Bringing up Amelia certainly wouldn't do the trick, no matter how badly Sam wants to talk about her just for the sake of saying her name aloud. He misses her lips and her easy speech and the curls in her hair, and watching Dean watch Lisa with that same longing makes him ache for all of them, himself included. Makes him ache for the girl who isn't there.

Maybe he doesn't totally understand how Dean's feeling, but he does understand missing someone like that. He just doesn't think Dean would want to hear it.

Point is, there's no manual for a situation like this one, and even if there was, Sam wouldn't be able to keep his eyes open long enough to read through the first page. With no one left in the room to worry about or reassure, Sam finally registers his own exhaustion for the first time.

He doesn't pass his brother on the way to the guest bedroom, and he feels bad about being grateful for that. There's a coffee table on the side of the bed farthest from the door, and that's where Sam puts his gun. It's the only detail he notices about the room before his head hits the pillow.

He's already dreaming.

* * *

By the time Dean realizes Lisa is standing next to the couch he's supposed to be sleeping on, she's already caught a glimpse of him, and it's too late to turn back around and disappear. She smiles at him in acknowledgment, and Dean doesn't think he smiles back.

"You don't have to do that," he mutters instead, watching as she tucks an extra bed sheet into the creases of the couch cushions. She starts stacking pillows next, reaching for a small pile at her feet.

Lisa shrugs. "It's fine. Might as well be comfortable, long as you're here."

"I'm sorry," Dean says, taking another slow step towards her. "I'm sorry I have to be."

Lisa pauses with a pillow in her hand. She squeezes it against her chest and turns all the way around to face him fully. Dean stops mid-stride, trying to fold himself smaller.

"I think I'm grateful," Lisa says after a moment of thought, and Dean's eyebrows raise in confusion. "Or I think one day I _will_ be grateful," she clarifies. "At the very least, I get to see Ben one more time. And maybe seeing you again is something I needed. Maybe I can make all the pieces you took away from me fit back together again."

She lets the pillow drop onto the couch, turning away from him again to reach next for the blanket draped over its arm. She smooths it out along the length of the couch.

"Lisa I'm…" Dean starts, but she cuts him off, that hardened edge he doesn't recognize coloring her voice again.

"Stop apologizing. I still need to be angry about it right now," she says, still smoothing the blanket out. Dean knows he won't use it. "I still _get_ to be angry about it. Maybe for the rest of my life. So just stop."

Dean nods. "Okay."

"I do have a question though," Lisa continues. She's done making up his bed, so she faces him again. Dean inclines his head, waiting for her to continue.

"The 'someone' who did this to me, who took my memories...is it possible they took more than my memories of you?" she asks, and she sounds afraid, though she's trying to hide it. "How big of an invasion could it have been? Could I be missing other things?"

Dean shakes his head. "No," he insists, making sure he's looking her in the eye. "Lisa, no. Cas would never. He was one of the good ones. And very powerful. He'd never make a mistake like that, and he'd definitely never take away more than he needed to to keep you safe."

Lisa snorts, shaking her head with a small chuckle, and the sound throws Dean. "What?" he asks. He wants to smile, but he doesn't know what kind of laugh that was. There are so many things he doesn't recognize about her anymore, and he wonders if she's had the same thought.

She pushes a hand through her hair. "You, talking about keeping us safe," she says. "Obviously that didn't work out."

Dean falls silent, any trace of a smile leaving his lips in the space of half a second. He drops his eyes and waits for her to leave, to let her words haunt his dreams tonight along with all the other nightmares. It would be more kindness than he deserves. But she doesn't leave. She's still looking at him, and when Dean raises his head, he sees a confusing amount of pity.

"So you lost him, too, huh?" she asks. "This Cas person?"

Dean looks at her questioningly.

"You used the past tense," she explains.

"Oh," Dean nods. "Yeah."

"I'm sorry."

"Me too."

There is another long pause, and suddenly all Dean wants is for her to stay. He wants to tell her about Purgatory and Cas and about missing her and Ben. About Sam not looking for him. He wants to talk with her the way he never really did when he had the chance, when he was too buried in Sam's loss to ever share too much of himself with her.

Lisa sighs, then, and the moment is broken. Reality comes crashing back, and Dean watches all the things he can't say to anyone float back to where they sit inside his head, tucked too deep between the inner layers of brain tissue and skull.

"I'm gonna go check on Ben," Lisa says, moving out of the room. She gestures to the couch. "Make yourself comfortable."

"Thanks," Dean says, and it sounds like a whisper. He's not sure she hears it.

Lisa turns just before she reaches the top of the stairs. "Don't mention it."

* * *

 **Thank you for reading/leaving your thoughts!**


	6. Chapter 6

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ CHAPTER 6 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 _Something's after him._

 _He was supposed to be sleeping, but there's no sleeping here, and something's coming. He can't hear it yet, but he can feel it, and he's learned to trust that feeling. It's the reason he's still alive after all this time._

 _There's something else that's wrong. Something else besides the_ everything _that's_ always _wrong here, but he can't quite put his finger on what this new wrong is. He just knows something's different._

 _A moment later, he realizes what it is._

 _He's alone._

 _Someone should be here with him._

" _Sam?" he dares to whisper, risking it because he still hasn't heard the telltale signs of an approaching monster. But wait. That's not right, is it? That's not right._

" _Benny?" he tries next. He thinks he's crouched behind a tree, same as usual, but there is a soft edge to the bark that's unfamiliar to him. Still, that's the least of his worries right now. Only a matter of time before whatever's after him catches up. He's got one more name to try, but for some reason he doesn't think anyone's coming. That scares him more than the monster._

" _Cas?" he calls anyway, because he has to._

 _Something moves, and it isn't Cas or Benny or Sam. Dean barely has time to scream before it's tearing out his throat._

He comes awake choking, searching desperately for air, and it takes him a too-long moment of confused panic to remember where he is. Dean curls his fingers around the back of Lisa's couch, grounding himself until everything comes back into focus. But that feeling, the feeling of something coming, doesn't fade the way it usually does after a nightmare. It sits in his stomach, churning and acidic, and Dean can't make himself relax.

There is a noise from outside the house, then, and Dean knows it's not in his head. He's fully alert now, fingers itching for a long, ugly blade that isn't next to him like it used to be not so long ago. He gets up from the couch and snags the Impala's keys from the table where he'd left them, cutting a path to the front door, sliding into his boots as he goes.

He remembers the alarm at the last minute, turning to type in the code that somehow hasn't bled out of his memory the way he wishes other things would. Once it's disabled, he pauses only for a moment before throwing open the door, letting the cool night air wash over him, eyes already searching for the source of the noise. There is nothing he can see, but the feeling is there, so Dean closes the door behind him, moves for the car and pops the trunk, letting out a low sigh of relief only when his hand is curled around the blade he'd brought back from Purgatory.

Then he searches the yard.

In the back of his mind, Dean knows he's probably insane. Purgatory didn't do him any favors in the paranoia department, and he'd had enough of that already. But there had been a noise from outside, and it had been real. And it might've been a squirrel or a branch moving in the breeze, but Dean is pretty sure it wasn't.

He becomes more than pretty sure when he watches whatever it was dart out from behind a tree in the neighbor's yard before disappearing into the night. It moves like a human, but Dean knows that might mean absolutely nothing. He's running after it before he even gives his legs the instruction, tearing across the grass like a lion chasing a gazelle. It feels good to let his muscles move this way, almost like he's home. The thought scares him a little, so he pushes his attention back to searching out the shape he can no longer see. Eventually, he loses the trail completely, pauses to lean against a stone fountain in a stranger's backyard while he gets his breath back. He straightens and moves away when he notices the details of the fountain: a man with his head bent low, a pair of long, feathered wings sprouting from his back.

It takes a long time to walk back to Lisa's and Dean realizes he must've run farther than he thought. The Purgatory blade swings deftly at his side, car keys jingling in his pocket. He takes the keys out and curls them into his hand when he reaches Lisa's porch, not wanting to make any noise. He slides quietly back into the house, resetting the alarm behind him. Exhaustion finds him then, but Dean refuses to succumb to it. Because something was out there, and it wasn't in his head.

Something was out there, and it might come back.

* * *

In the morning, Lisa finds Dean curled in front of the entryway like a guard dog. He's lying on his side facing the front door, boots laced, knees pulled up to his chest, and an ugly looking weapon draped over his left arm. Lisa pauses halfway down the stairs. Dean is close enough to the edge of the banister that she'd more than likely wake him if she came the rest of the way down, and she's not sure how well that would go for her. She eyes the weapon warily, thinking.

Sam comes into the hallway then, rubbing a hand blearily over his eye. He stops to take in the situation in front of him, offering Lisa an apologetic smile. He motions for her to stay where she is, and then thinks about how best to wake his brother. It hadn't gone so well for him the last time, and this time Dean's got a real weapon on him.

"Dean?" Sam tries, inching a little closer but still keeping some space between them. "Dean, wake up."

Dean shifts a little, grip tightening around the blade in his hand. Sam knows his brother would be embarrassed by the small noise of distress that comes out of his mouth, especially in Lisa's company. It's why he kneels down beside his brother, closer than he'd like, to place a hand on Dean's shoulder and shake him out of it. Dean comes awake fast, just like Sam knew he would. The blade is at Sam's throat on his next blink, and distantly he hears Lisa's frightened intake of breath, but he can't focus on that now. He finds Dean's manic eyes, staring him down as calmly as he can.

"It's me," Sam says. "Dean. It's me."

The blade slides away swiftly, landing with a thump on the carpet in the entryway. Dean's animalistic expression morphs into one of recognition, coupled with fear. His body doesn't relax, shoulders pulled taut beneath Sam's touch.

"Shit. _Shit_ ," Dean mumbles, mostly to himself. "Sorry. I'm sorry." He reaches a hand out to touch Sam's shoulder for a moment, as if solidifying his reality. And then he twists gracefully to his feet, blade somehow back in his hand, eyes tracking every surrounding. He catches sight of Lisa, frozen on the stairs.

"S'okay Dean," Sam says, still kneeling, watching his brother's expression carefully. Dean swallows, focuses back on Sam. "Maybe wash up a bit and we'll meet you in the kitchen, yeah?"

Dean nods, head dropping to his chest in what Sam recognizes as shame. "Mhm," he grunts, shuffling off in the direction of the bathroom. Sam waits until he's gone before he finds his feet, daring to cast a look in Lisa's direction. She's still standing in the middle of the stairs, expression giving nothing away.

"Where's Ben?" he asks, just for something to say.

"Sleeping, I think," Lisa says. "Or...recharging? I'm not sure what to call it."

"Oh," is all Sam can think to say.

"I'll get him in a little while." A pause, and then: "I think I have eggs."

And with that, Lisa makes her way down the remaining stairs, pausing only to glance at the couch where Dean spent the night. Her eyes linger on the pile of pillows and blankets, stacked exactly as she'd left them. As if Dean feared it would be too big of an inconvenience to use them.

"Come help me set up," Lisa says, motioning for Sam to follow her.

"Oh. Uh, sure," Sam nods, unfreezing himself and letting her lead him into the kitchen.

"Plates are in that cabinet," she gestures. "Cups are there." Another wave of her hand. She goes for the fridge, pulling out a carton of eggs and a bag of shredded cheddar. "Do you like cheese in yours?"

"Sure," Sam says again, suddenly transfixed. Because he can picture it now, the way he never could before. He sees his brother instead of him, grabbing plates and orange juice and maybe even doing the cooking on some mornings. He sees Ben poring over a study guide; watches Dean give Lisa a secretive smile before flicking a stray piece of egg in his direction. It's a scene from a movie that could never be their lives, and yet somehow, Sam knows it happened. Or something like it, at least.

"Sam?" Lisa coaxes as she sets the pan down on the stove and turns on the burner. "Four...three plates, please."

"Right, sorry," Sam recovers, clearing his throat and grabbing plates and glasses. He finds the orange juice in the fridge, pours out the last of it and feels guilty. They'd brought her the ghost of her son and probably a world of problems. She shouldn't be _hosting_ them, letting them eat her food and sit at her table.

"Toast?" Lisa asks, cracking the last of the eggs into a bowl. Sam shrugs noncommittally and watches Lisa grab two pieces for him. He feels that same, odd tightening in his chest from before.

"So. What happened?" Lisa asks. She's finishing whisking the eggs and pouring them into the simmering pan and most definitely not looking at him when she says it.

"What do you mean?" Sam counters, even though he's pretty sure he knows _exactly_ what she means. He can practically feel her roll her eyes, though she's still not facing him.

Lisa sighs. "With Dean. Something big's happened since I knew him. I have most of my memory back now, I think, and he wasn't like this. Granted, he was grieving you, so I know he wasn't himself. But there wasn't this...I don't know. There's something in his eyes now."

"You're right," Sam acquiesces, nodding. "Something happened. He uh...went somewhere. Guess you could call it a warzone. He was there for a year without me."

"Where'd he go?" The voice is neither Lisa's nor Sam's, and they both turn to see Ben in the entryway to the kitchen, looking more pale and drawn than he had the day before, if possible. He takes a seat at the counter, looking at Sam expectantly.

Sam clears his throat and thinks of how to answer, but before he can, Dean moves silently into the kitchen.

"Sam?" Dean says, eyes locking onto his brother immediately. "Can I talk to you for a second?"

"Sure." Sam slides off his chair, following Dean back out into the foyer. There is a mark on the carpet where dirt from Dean's boots has been rubbed deep into the fibers. Sam tries his best not to look at it.

"What's up?" Sam asks.

Dean shifts from one foot to the other, looking uncertain. "Something was here last night," he whispers. "Outside the house."

"What do you mean _something_? Like our kind of something?" Sam presses, immediately alert.

Dean nods.

Sam's nose scrunches thoughtfully. "Are you sure?"

The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, and he fully expects to watch his older brother's lip curl at both the tone and the insinuation. But Dean just nods again, eyes not quite catching on anything.

"Look I know I've been...fidgety lately and I maybe I'm still a little wacked out from... _whatever_ ," he says, letting Sam fill in the obvious blank, "but I know I'm right about this. Something was here."

Sam's eyes widen a little at the admission about being off-kilter, but he doesn't get a chance to answer.

"Something like a monster?" comes Ben's voice, and _damn_ but the kid moves quick and quiet. Kind of like Dean does now. Except Ben also happens to have the advantage (if one could call it that) of being dead. He's standing with his arms crossed just a few feet away, and Sam wonders how long he's been listening.

Dean rubs a hand over the back of his neck and grimaces. "Ben, go back into the kitchen, please."

"Hell no," Ben growls, and the chandelier above their heads shakes just the slightest amount. Sam knows Dean notices, watches his jaw clench, but Dean keeps his eyes on the ghost of the kid he used to know. "If there's something coming, I wanna know about it," Ben continues, anger still evident in his tone. Sam shivers a little at the sudden chill in the air. "And mom should know about it too. God, don't you learn anything Dean?

Dean clears his throat, and Sam observes the tension in his stance that always seems to be there now, that constant readiness that has kicked up a few infinitesimal notches at Ben's small almost-outburst. "Ben. Calm down."

Ben's lip twitches angrily. The lights flicker once. "Don't tell me to calm down. If there's something coming, I _deserve_ to know about it. It's the least you can do, having gotten me killed and all."

Dean recoils like he's been slapped, mouth opening in a silent 'O'.

"Ben, easy," Sam urges, shooting the kid a warning glance. Ben narrows his eyes, but Sam can see a little bit of remorse in them, a little bit of the fear that most likely prompted the cutting words.

"No," Dean says, recovering. "Ben's right. He deserves to have all the information this time. So does Lis."

"She's making eggs," Ben says, tone soft now, and Sam recognizes it as one of Dean's signature non-apology apologies. Seems the kid picked up more than a few things from his big brother. The realization makes Sam ache. Makes him think about how good of a dad Dean could've been- how good of a dad he already _was_ , even when he was just a kid himself. Dean smiles with half his mouth, waving the white flag of peace and forgiveness with a single look.

"Cheese?" he asks playfully, but there is still a heaviness there in the words that Ben doesn't seem to fully pick up on. The kid nods.

"Okay," says Dean, lip still twitching in that stupid, sad smile that Sam can barely stand to look at for too long. "We'll talk over breakfast then, alright? We'll figure all this out."

Sam thinks of a hundred rally speeches performed by the infallible Dean Winchester. Thinks of so many strong pats on the shoulder, gentle ruffles of the hair, countless encouraging words and ill-timed jokes that somehow still managed to make Sam laugh. Looking at Dean now, seeing the weight behind his crinkled gaze and the pain beneath every rippling muscle, Sam wonders how he ever let himself fall for the ruse of invincibility. Dean leads Ben back into the kitchen, pausing briefly to shoot a worried glance at the now unmoving chandelier, and Sam wonders how many of those hidden glances he missed when it was _him_ Dean was placating.

Ben and Dean disappear back into the kitchen. Sam hears Dean mumble something that sounds like 'smells good,' and it takes him a long, long moment before he can follow after them. He has this ugly feeling that something is about to go very wrong. That their presence here is causing some vital piece of foundation to crack and crumble apart. There are chips in the paint and it's only a matter of time before the roof starts leaking or the floorboards begin to warp beneath the invisible pressure that has always been their existence. Normal people can't handle the kind of disaster they tend to bring with them. Sam had begun to feel it with Amelia, too. Had bailed before he could take her life apart completely.

And he's afraid for his brother now.

He's afraid Dean won't be able to walk away before the two of them do what they always do: wreak destruction.

Wreak death.

* * *

 **It's possible I'll be posting a day later next week, but I'm hoping that won't be the case! Thanks for reading!**


	7. Chapter 7

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Chapter 7 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"So. You're saying there was a monster in my yard last night?" Lisa says. They're sitting around the kitchen table, eggs and toast and orange juice laid out like normality. Her tone makes it sound like she's talking to a toddler who's told some elaborate lie. _Was it really the Boogeyman who stole all the cookies from Mommy's bin? Are you sure about that?_

"I know how it sounds," Dean says. He's barely touched his eggs.

Lisa purses her lips. "Do you?" she asks between bites of toast. It's as if she's using the food as a buffer- the only thing that's keeping her from screaming her next words. "You show up here after all this time dragging the ghost of my _kid_ behind you, and now you're saying something might be after me? Again? Where the hell does it end?"

"It ends when we kill whatever this is," Dean replies evenly. His lip twitches, as if already anticipating the demise of a monster he doesn't yet know the name of. Sam stays quiet, watching for more of these hidden expressions he's probably missed over the years. It's weird, like he's looking at his brother from the outside in for the first time in his life. Like Dean's a stranger he has to examine and read like a mark.

Lisa throws her hands up, letting them land lightly on the table. "This is insane."

"I know," Dean shrugs. "But you need to be prepared. I need to do it right this time."

Lisa chews on the inside of her cheek, looking at Dean. "Okay," she says after a moment of silence. "So what now? I mean what's the next step here?"

Dean raises his eyebrows, somewhat baffled. Lisa catches the expression and rolls her eyes.

"Look, I kind of remember how this goes. You're the expert, right? Sooner you kill the monster, sooner you can leave. So I'm trusting you, even though I really, really shouldn't."

"Dean's the best there is, Mom," Ben cuts in, tone matter of fact. "He'll keep you safe."

Dean shoots Ben a look that screams _not helping_ , then grimaces apologetically in Lisa's direction.

Sam speaks up finally, when the next silence stretches too long. "Next step is to do what we always do: we figure out what we're up against. Find out why it's after you. And then we figure out how to kill it."

"And how long will all of that take?" Lisa asks, already knowing she'll hate the answer.

"No way to know," Sam replies, not bothering to sugarcoat.

"Great." Lisa rolls her tongue along her teeth and stands up from the table, reaching for Sam and Dean's plates, raising her eyebrows at Dean's untouched breakfast. He lets her take it away. She brings both plates to the sink, talking over her shoulder. "And I'm assuming you'll need to stay close by in the meantime? At all times?"

Sam downs the rest of his orange juice and meets her at the sink, handing the empty glass off to her. "That would make things a lot easier, yes. Plus that would mean…"

"More time with Ben," Lisa nods, not needing Sam to finish the thought. "Guess I'm cashing in on all those unused vacation days."

Dean hasn't moved from his spot at the kitchen table. He's got his fingers wrapped around his full glass of orange juice, peering straight through it like he's trying to pick out and name each individual strand of Vitamin C nestled in the pulp. Sam lingers for an extra second on his brother's expression before he grabs for the dishrag next to the sink and starts drying the dishes Lisa's already placed on the drying rack.

"We can follow you to work if that's easier," Sam suggests. "We're not trying to ruin your life here. Just trying to save it."

Lisa shakes her head, handing Sam a clean plate. "No. After this is over, whatever this is, we'll have to figure out...Ben will have to leave. So before that happens, I'd like to just be with him." She turns around to find Ben, who's also still sitting at the table, carefully observing Dean. Dean studiously continues to ignore everyone in the room, lost in his little glass world. "How's that sound, sweetie?"

Ben looks over at his mom, and he smiles. Bright and happy and almost alive. He nods, head bobbing with real enthusiasm.

"Okay, so that part's settled," says Lisa, passing Sam the last dish in the sink. She waits patiently while he dries the fork and puts it back on the drying rack. "So for everything else," she continues once he's focused his attention on her once again. "What do you guys need?"

"Honestly?" Sam says, spinning so that he's facing Dean and Ben again, leaning on the counter. "Time." A pause. "And preferably your Wi-Fi password."

Lisa busts out a short, surprised laugh, and then seems to catch herself. Still, she's smirking when she nods her understanding. Sam misses the expression. He's too busy watching Dean's. The way he had immediately unfrozen at the sound of her laugh, lip twitching again, different than the animalistic calculation of before. This time, it's like there's nothing he'd rather do than join in on that laughter. Instead, he finally takes his first sip of orange juice before Lisa can catch sight of what was probably the beginnings of a smile.

* * *

Sam glances up from his laptop for the first time in what seems like hours. For some stupid reason, the best spot in the house for Wi-Fi is in the middle of the stairs, so that's where Sam' s been perched, shoulders hunched and fingers dancing over keys. Every once in awhile he can catch small glimpses of Dean through the narrow windows next to the front door, pacing the porch with his Purgatory blade swinging at his side. He'd insisted on keeping watch in case the monster or whatever it might be came back, though Sam knows it's more of an excuse than anything else. An excuse to keep his distance from Lisa and Ben...maybe even from Sam. Regardless, Sam has other things to focus on at the moment.

It's taken him forever to even guess at what he might be looking for, and even now, the picture is just barely beginning to form. He leans back from the screen, stretching out his back and letting out a low groan when he feels his spine pop. He glances out over the railing to where Ben and Lisa are sitting, watching TV. He's about to get back to work when he catches sight of the look in Lisa's eyes. Ben is focused on whatever's happening on screen (Sam recognizes the movie and smiles. Knows it has to be one that Dean showed them. Probably bought the DVD for them and everything). But Lisa's attention is focused solely on her son. She's staring at him like she knows she's dreaming, but she doesn't want it to end.

"Mom," Ben says, drawing out the 'o.'

"Hmm?" Lisa mumbles, still staring.

"Please stop looking at me like that." He sounds just the right amount of impatient, but Sam can hear the sadness leaking into his voice, too. He wonders if Ben is already thinking about goodbye.

Lisa clears her throat, blinks herself out of her daze. "Oh. Sorry." She smiles guiltily at him. "You hungry?"

Ben rolls his eyes and snorts, turning back to the TV. Two men sit in a diner. The image is fuzzy, picture in black and white.

" _And then I'd quit, Rico,"_ says the taller man on the left. _"I'd go back to dancing, like I used to before I met you."_ Sam leans into the banister, suddenly as transfixed by the old movie as Ben is pretending to be. _"I don't know"_ the man continues. His name is Joe, Sam remembers. _"I ain't made for this sort of thing."_

Sam's swallows hard, shifting back to look at his laptop again.

"Right. Yeah," says Lisa over Joe's next words. "Stupid question." She turns back to the screen. Hesitates for a moment, but doesn't look away from the two men on screen. "Ben?"

"Yeah?" Ben sighs.

Lisa clears her throat. "Nothing. I'm just….I'm really...I just missed you."

Ben smiles, turning to give his mom his full attention. "I missed you too, Mom. I wanted to break through the veil so bad, it was killing me. I'm sorry I didn't find you sooner."

Sam flinches at the poor choice of words. He's also getting the distinct feeling they've forgotten he's within hearing distance and briefly considers making a quiet escape. But he also doesn't want to break the moment by drawing attention to himself. Too many words between him and Dean have remained forever unspoken due to an ill-timed phone call or a nasty speed bump or, hell, even an Angel of the Lord popping in at the wrong time. He can tell the Braedens are building up to something, and he doesn't want to be the inhibitor that staunches the blast. Volcanoes were made to erupt, after all. He stays put and fails to ignore the conversation.

"Don't apologize for that," Lisa says, shaking her head. Onscreen, Rico has walked in on a poker game.

Ben nods easily. "Okay."

"You could apologize for running out on me, though," Lisa says suddenly. "That's an apology I would take."

They're really looking at each other now, the movie completely forgotten. "Mom…" Ben starts.

"You never should have left," Lisa says, as if the conviction in the words could somehow rewrite history. The sorrow in her tone holds Sam captive, and he can't focus on his research anymore. His fingers stop moving over the keys.

Ben looks like he's about to cry. "I know," he says.

Sam knows this conversation. He's been right in the middle of it on countless occasions. It was the _You Can't Sneak Off Like That_ fight after Sam ran away to Flagstaff. One with Dad, one with Dean, though Dean's was mostly just holding onto him and not letting go and shaking so hard Sam thought he might fall apart right there. It was Stanford, too. It was hitchhiking in Chicago and Ruby and demon blood and falling into Lucifer's Cage. His brother begging, asking, wondering. Why didn't Sam stay?

Sam's had a million second chances, and he's done the same thing every time. He wonders why someone keeps doling those chances out, perhaps thinking he'll finally make the right decision. Crazy to think how many roads they've walked, how often the pavement is about to drop out from under them and suddenly there's more of it, another long mile to walk beside a brother who is somehow still breathing.

He wishes Ben and Lisa could get another chance, too. That that same someone would flip the script around and let them stay together and alive. He wonders why he and Dean are so special, why they're the ones who hold onto such a cursed and wretched and beautiful gift.

It's then that Dean walks back into the house, closing the door slowly and quietly behind him, as if he's somehow sensed the importance of the conversation happening between mother and son. More likely, he'd learned from his time in Monsterland that making noise would get him killed, and the habit is hard to break. He catches Sam's eye from where he still sits in the middle of the stairs, then cuts a quick look over to the TV.

" _You gotta get me out of this, Rico,"_ Joe begs from the screen, tall black hat tilted to the side. _"You gotta. Don't you see? I'm working steady now! Can't a guy ever say he's through?"_

Dean's eyes crinkle a little when he, too, recognizes the movie, but the smile stops short when he sees Ben and Lisa sitting on the couch facing each other, both with tears in their eyes. They are still talking, but the words are low and mumbled now, drowned out by Rico, his gang, and a reluctant Joe planning out their next heist. Dean shoots a questioning look in Sam's direction, who shrugs. _Let them talk it out_ , his expression says. Dean narrows his eyes, then gestures with the hand that still holds his blade for Sam to follow after him into the guest room.

Sam gets up as quietly as he can, bringing the laptop with him and following after his brother. Dean is standing awkwardly in the center of the room, arms swinging at his sides, weight shifting from one foot to the other.

"Whattya got?" he asks once Sam's closed the door behind him. "Anything poppin' out at you?"

"I think I might have something, yeah," Sam says. "But it's really, really thin."

"Okay, so shoot," Dean encourages.

"It's really not much."

"Look, Lisa's in danger here. 'Not much' is still one step closer to _something_." Dean's right hand twitches and the blade jumps, just a little bit. Sam does his best not to jump, too.

"Looks like crossroad deals," Sam starts, dropping his laptop softly onto the bed. "A lot of them, going back a little over a decade. People making it big, dying ugly ten years later."

Dean rolls his eyes and starts pacing the small space, shoving Sam's duffle bag closer to the bed with his shoe to make a clear path. "That's fascinating, Sam, but it's not exactly helpful. Crossroads demons don't stalk people outside their homes, and Lisa's not searching them out in the first place."

Sam locks his jaw for a moment and considers the implications of his next words. He watches Dean pace for another moment, boots treading lightly over the carpet. Sam clears his throat. "You sure about that?" he asks, and watches Dean freeze.

" _What_?" Dean looks like someone just threw his favorite firearm into the river.

"She lost her kid, Dean," Sam explains, cautiously. "And they'd been getting vague memories of you. Of the life and how things are in our world. Maybe she figured out how crossroads work. She's not stupid."

Dean's empty hand curls into a fist, but he drops the Purgatory blade onto the mattress with a decisive thump. Sam's ashamed of how much safer that makes him feel. "Damn right she's not stupid," Dean growls, voice getting louder with each word. "Which means she would _never_...I mean she wouldn't. She _wouldn't_ do that."

"You did," Sam answers calmly.

Dean's forehead scrunches. "That's not…that's different," he insists.

"How?"

"H...Sam. Come on," Dean growls. "You're missing something. You gotta dig deeper."

"So we will, Dean. We'll go into town, start asking some questions." Sam pulls his laptop open, types in the password, and spins it against the mattress so that it's facing Dean. "Here. This is what I know so far. I say we head out in ten, see what we can find."

Dean stares down at the screen, but it's obvious he's not registering the list of names and stories Sam has pulled up. Sam rubs a hand down along his jaw and sighs again. His tone is softer now.

"Dean?" he waits until Dean is looking at him. "I'm not saying anything yet, okay? You know her better than I do. But we can't ignore this. And right now it's all I can find that's even slightly our kind of thing. So let's go see how all the pieces fit together, okay?"

Dean catches his tongue between his teeth and nods. He picks up the laptop and starts skimming as he makes his way to the door.

"I'm gonna change. Meet you in a few," he says, closing the door behind him on the way out. It barely makes a sound, and Sam finds himself wishing, for the first time in his life, that his brother could be just a little bit louder. Because sometimes it feels like he'll turn around and Dean will have vanished. Will have melted back into a place Sam could never hope to find, could never pull him back from. Sam turns, glancing down at Dean's blade where it still sits on the mattress. He shivers a little.

Sometimes he wonders if he ever really got Dean back at all.

* * *

 **NOTE: The movie being 'played' here is a 1931 film called** _ **Little Caesar.**_ **If you've seen it, I'm impressed with you (or, more likely, your parents, who no doubt sat you down to watch it, same as my father did for me =)).**


	8. Chapter 8

**SURPRISE! So because tomorrow is a national holiday for my fellow Americans, I figured I should post a day early so y'all can spend some time with your families and set off fireworks and stuff. Me? I'll be working. Woot woot. Anyways, enjoy!**

 **~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ CHAPTER 8 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

Lisa stops the brothers in the hallway, glances down and sees that their boots are on.

"Hey," she says. "Was looking for you guys. Wanted to know your plan for the day. Ben and I were going to play a board game or something." She gestures to their clothes. "Guessing that's not in the cards for you."

Sam shakes his head. "Sorry, Lisa. We're gonna follow some leads, try to track down some answers. Might be a while."

Lisa shrugs. "Okay."

She looks relieved, and Sam can't blame her. He can't imagine what it must feel like to have them hovering so close to her life all this time.

Dean, silent up to now, turns to face Sam. "We can't just leave her here alone."

"She won't be alone," Sam reminds him. "Ben's here. And we've warded the house in just about every way we know how."

"First of all, Ben's a...kid," Dean argues, stuttering a little, like he'd been about to say something else. "And second, he's linked to me. He'll have to leave, too."

Lisa's face falls at that, but she still manages to sound pissed. " _She_ will be just fine either way," she snaps.

"I'm staying," Ben says, quite literally appearing out of nowhere. All three of them jump, Dean reaching for a weapon at his back that he doesn't have. He catches himself halfway through the motion, but they all see it. Ben clears his throat.

"I can control it, I know I can." He turns to face Lisa. "I want to stay with you, Mom."

"Look, you're kind of on a different level than most of the other...ghosts we've met," Dean says, no doubt filling in the very word he'd been avoiding saying just a few moments ago. "But that doesn't mean you can just change the rules at will. I'm pretty sure you'll be dragged along, whether you want to be or not."

Ben faces Dean, arms crossed. "Try me."

"Ben, come on," Dean says, apologetic.

"Seriously. I bet you your favorite machete I can stay here if I want to. It's all about mind control," Ben insists, tapping a finger against his forehead. He smiles cheekily.

"Ben," Dean repeats, frustrated. "Don't you think my brother and I would know this stuff?"

The kid shrugs. "Only one way to prove me wrong. Get your asses on the road."

Lisa shrugs too, pride in her eyes. "Guess we'll see," she agrees. "Just put up a few more of those protection things if you're really that worried about it."

"Aren't _you_ worried about it?" Dean asks, and then seems to stop short, as if he's come to some important realization. He stares at Lisa, and she stares back. Sam feels like he missed something vital in the span of those last few seconds, but he's not sure what it was, and there's no way he's asking.

Three minutes later, Sam's still wondering about it, but they're already flying down the road and into town.

Dean keeps an eye on the backseat the whole way, eyes darting to the rearview over and over again.

Ben never shows up.

* * *

The tavern used to be called _Marshall's_ when Dean was last here, but apparently it's under new ownership. Now it's called _Dave's_. Dean doesn't mention this to Sam when they pull into the lot. It's just something he catalogues for no good reason. It just is.

The setup is different, too. It looks cleaner inside, sleek, black tables replacing the chipped wooden ones he and a few of the construction guys used to sit at a couple nights a week. He tries not to hesitate for too long in the doorway, tries to make this feel like a regular job in a no-name town he'll never remember. Sam doesn't look at him funny or anything, so he must be pulling it off. They walk up to the bar, and Sam orders them a couple beers while Dean faces outward, scanning the room.

"You wanna divide and conquer here or what?" Dean asks, snagging his beer from behind him without looking and taking a slow sip.

Sam picks up his own beer, and Dean watches him salute the barkeep from the corner of his vision. "Hey, got a question for you," he says. Dean rolls his eyes and starts to turn towards the bar.

And then turns right back around.

The bartender's pretty young, mid-thirties maybe, with hair longer than Sam's secured in a ponytail at the back of his neck. He smiles with half his mouth, showing one gold tooth. Dean recognizes him immediately. He used to work at the Auto Shop two streets over. They'd talked, once, when Dean needed a replacement part for his work truck.

Dax. That was his name.

"Shoot," Dax says, all smiles. He's a good dude, Dean remembers. Knows his cars, but his heart's always been elsewhere. He'd told Dean he wanted to open up his own brewery one day. Dean pushes off from the bar, doesn't bother to shoot a glance back at his brother. If Dax recognizes him, they're screwed.

"You know a guy named Phillip Moorhead?" Dean hears Sam ask as he walks away, pulling from one of the names on their list. Phil's story had been pretty clear-cut: Family man, late forties. Suddenly makes the right move in the stock market one day and never slows down.

"Ah, Miracle Man Moorhead?" Dax laughs. They're the last words Dean catches before he shuffles through the door of the bathroom and shuts it firmly behind him, letting out a breath. He leans against the back wall next to the hand dryer, watching himself in the mirror while he downs the rest of his beer, quick and deliberate. He washes his hands for no good reason, just watching the water slide off his fingers. He splashes a little on his face, snags a couple paper towels and douses the drops away. When he's done, he leaves the bathroom and moves to the opposite side of the bar from where Sam is standing, still talking with Dax. Dean leans against the counter and tries to be invisible. It doesn't work.

"You with that guy?" a voice asks. Dean turns to find a woman with a bandana tied in her graying brown hair. She smiles at him like they're in cahoots and clacks her gum, jabbing a finger in Sam's direction. "Y'all walked in together, right?"

"What's it to you?"

The woman shrugs, taking a swig of her own beer. Dean rolls his tongue over his teeth, wondering how beer and gum could possibly go together. "Oh nothing, just figured you're after the same thing."

"And what's that?"

"Phil Moorhead, right?" She winks at Dean's bewildered expression. "I got ears, kid. And I use 'em. Town this small, everybody's in everybody's business. And you aren't from around here."

"Look…"

"It's taxes, isn't it? Fucking idiots get rich and decide they're done paying it all back to the government. It's nuts."

Dean takes the rope she's given him, hopes to God he doesn't hang himself with it. "Damn right it's taxes," he lies. "Bastard hasn't paid 'em since he struck gold ten years ago."

"Well that's where your math is wrong, sweetie," the woman counters. "Been twelve years since Philly had his little breakthrough. I followed it from the beginning, sharp eyes to go with the ears, ya know? Something about it always stunk to me, but what the hell do I know?"

"Twelve years, huh?" Dean asks. "You sure about that uh...?" he pauses, waiting for her to fill in her name.

"Sandy," she supplies, sticking her hand out. Dean shakes it. "And hell yes, sure as the fish in the sea, my dear," Sandy nods.

"And Sandy, when was the last time you saw Phil around these parts?" Dean asks.

"Actually, rumor is he disappeared about three days ago," Sandy answers. "No one's really seen him. Last time for me was a little over a week ago at the supermarket. Didn't say hi, we're more passing acquaintances than anything, but yeah. That was the last time, I believe."

Dean raises his eyebrows in surprise. "You're positive it was him?"

"My god son, what the hell did I just say?" Sandy growls, smacking him hard on the arm. Dean makes a face at her. "It was him. And don't make that sour lemon face at me, I'm givin' you top-dollar information here and you're questioning my every damn syllable."

"Right. Sorry," Dean laments, rubbing at his arm. "Why _are_ you telling me this?" he asks, knowing he should just cut his losses and get the hell out, but curious nonetheless. Sam is done talking to Dax now. He's searching the bar, and when his eyes land on Dean, he gives Sam a small nod. Sam starts moving in his direction.

Sandy straightens up a bit. "Well because I do believe this world's going to shit," she says, unabashedly. "And the only thing possibly standing in the way of our destruction are the kids."

"I'm sorry, I don't understand…?" says Dean, wrinkling his nose.

"Taxes, you idiot," Sandy says, slapping Dean on the arm again. Sam, just a little ways away now, sees the interaction and smirks. "What do you think funds their education?"

"Oh. Right. Obviously," Dean nods, just as Sam reaches them. Sandy catches Sam's eye and steps forward to greet the six-foot-four hunter with barely a blink.

"Hello," she says, extending her hand with a coy smile. "You must be Tweedle-Dee."

Sam takes her hand and shakes, dimples standing out. "I can understand why you'd think that after meeting my partner," he chuckles easily, eyes sliding over to Dean, whose expression sours once again. Sandy looks over her shoulder at Dean.

"I like this one," she teases, referring to Sam. "Deserves to have one of our town's little miracles happen to him, I think."

Dean's eyes narrow, and he's suddenly interested again. "What do you mean by 'little miracles'?"

"Well Phil isn't the only one with a spell of dumb luck," Sandy says. "Just last year, Tracey Lind got swept off to Hollywood to star in some big, new film. Never took an acting class a day in her life. Not very good either, if you ask me. But anyway, what do I know?"

"Huh," Sam nods. "Weird."

"Sure is," Sandy continues. She seems to relish the attention, especially Sam's. She's angled mostly towards him now, eyes bright. "And don't forget about Dana Richfield. Stage four colon cancer," she says, shaking her head sadly. Then she perks up. "Doctors said she had weeks. _Maybe_. And then, suddenly, _poof_. Cancer's gone. Like Death came to her door and she just said 'No thanks, see ya later.' It's been seven years since it was declared terminal and she's still goin' strong. Her and her daughter, Lauren, just got back from hiking the Grand Canyon. I think they're doing Peru next. Machu Picchu. You been?"

Both Sam and Dean shake their heads. Sandy's eyes linger on Dean for a moment.

"I hear it's like a whole different planet over there," she gushes at him. "Always wanted to have that feeling- like I was no longer on this same old, dim Earth for a while."

Dean thinks of Purgatory. The rot and the stink and the otherworldliness of it. How his skin felt too loose and his eyelids had gotten crusty and his insides had seemed to fold over on one another, as if his body had inherently understood that he didn't belong there.

"Yeah well, maybe it's not all it's cracked up to be," he says without thinking, voice cold.

It's Sam who smacks him this time; same damn spot on the same damn arm, but Sandy just laughs him off. "Well sheesh, you must be fun at parties."

"Sorry about my partner, he's…" Sam makes an abortive, noncommittal gesture. "Anyway, thanks for your help. We really appreciate it."

"Oh of course," Sandy grins. "I'm sure I've got more stories for ya if you want to stick around. This town's full of 'em. Guy named Edward Simmons married a Swedish model, and now they're..."

"We'd love to hear it all, but we really should be going," Sam interrupts as smoothly as he can manage. "It was wonderful to meet you," he smiles, turning the charm up a few notches and reaching for her hand again. Sandy blushes a little and pats his wrist before she lets it go. Dean makes a gagging noise and grabs Sam's sleeve, pulling him towards the back exit.

"Jesus, come on," he mutters, guiding Sam along. He's already got one foot out the door when he looks up and comes face to face with Dax, returning to the bar with a bucket of ice balanced on one shoulder. Dean freezes automatically, and Sam runs right into the back of him, sending Dean stumbling over the threshold. His elbow collides with Dax's, who has to overcompensate, sliding the bucket of ice off his shoulder and catching it smoothly in both arms. He sets it safely down on the ground outside, then spins to grab onto Dean's arm, holding him steady.

"Hey man, you alright?" he asks, friendly smile forever plastered on his face. Dean keeps his head down and nods, jerking his arm out of Dax's hold.

"Yeah, sorry," he mutters, already moving away. "I'm good."

"Sorry about that," Dean hears Sam say from behind him, no doubt apologizing on behalf of his rude companion once again. Dean doesn't turn around, just keeps walking towards the car.

"All good," Dax says easily. "Make sure he gets home okay, yeah?"

"Of course," Sam agrees.

 _Nicest freakin' guy on the planet, and that's the problem_ , Dean thinks, picking up the pace. He keeps expecting Dax to have an _ah-ha_ moment and suddenly remember how he knows the asshole that just bumped into him, but it never happens.

Dean's so far away by this point, he barely hears the clatter of the ice bucket as Dax readjusts it on his shoulder. He does, however, hear the shifting of Sam's feet on the gravel as he rushes to catch up to his brother. A moment later, Dean feels a hand on his shoulder, a silent question. The touch is gentle, so Dean shakes it off and doesn't stop walking until he's made it to the car. He slides into the driver's seat and slumps against the leather, closing his eyes when he feels Sam climb in on the opposite side.

"Hey Dean?"

"Yeah," Dean sighs, not opening his eyes.

"What's up?" is all Sam asks. Casual, like he doesn't much care about the answer. Which means Dean knows he's desperate for one.

Dean opens his eyes, shoves the keys in the ignition and starts up the Impala. "Knew that guy," he says, pulling out of the parking spot and back onto the road to Lisa's. He'd long ago memorized the route, and it's still wired into his head.

" _Oh_ ," says Sam, voice dripping in understanding. Which is funny, because Dean doubts his little brother understands _shit_ about this situation. "But he didn't recognize you?"

"Guess not," Dean shrugs, staring at the road in front of him.

"Should he have?" Sam asks carefully.

Dean blinks hards, cracks his jaw. "Think so."

Sam nods, mostly to himself. "So Cas must've wiped everyone's..."

"Yep," Dean cuts in. There is a long pause where Dean can practically see the gears shifting in Sam's head while he figures out what to say next.

"So that's good, right?" Sam asks after a moment. Always with the questions. "Means we won't run into trouble with people remembering you."

"Yep," Dean repeats. He still hasn't looked at his brother. They're about ten minutes out from Lisa's, and Dean wishes it was more like ten seconds. He doesn't want to answer any more of Sam's questions, especially when he's not even sure what's happening inside his head right now.

Because there had been a moment back there when all Dean wanted was to be recognized.

To have Dax run after him in the parking lot and spin him around and say: _"Hey man, thought that was you! What's up, too cool to say hi?"_ Where he'd longed for just a smidgen of proof reminding him of his existence here. Proof that his year with Lisa had actually happened. That he'd had friends, or at least co-workers. Acquaintances to nod to in the grocery store. That he'd gone to barbeques and waved to his neighbors every morning when he grabbed the paper and been capable of holding actual conversations involving mortgage instead of monsters.

That he'd been human, once. Even just for a little while.

"You okay?" Sam asks, no doubt trying to decipher Dean's expression. The older hunter presses his foot a little harder on the gas and doesn't answer.

He's especially done with that question in particular.

* * *

 **Yes, Dax's dream of opening up a brewery has been stolen directly from Jensen. It's fine. Thanks for sticking around this long. See you next week on the usual day!**


	9. Chapter 9

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ CHAPTER 9 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

It's late by the time they pull into Lisa's driveway, but most of the lights are still on.

Lisa lets them in, and they follow her into the living room where Ben is sitting on the floor, leaning against the couch, pieces of a board game scattered around him, a look of utter triumph etched into his features.

"Told ya," he says the moment he catches sight of the brothers. "Told ya I could stay here."

"You have officially impressed me, kid," Dean says, feigning a casual tone. In actuality, 'impressed' is only part of what he is. Mostly, he's just waiting for the other shoe to drop. It's rare, but he's heard stories of ghosts that have found a way to attach and reattach themselves to different anchors. The physical traces of ghosts are easy enough to map- fingernail clipping here, lock of hair there, a bag of bones to be burned- but ghosts leave parts of themselves within people, too, intangible pieces of thread tying them back to the living. And those stories never end well. A ghost with too many anchors can lose themselves quickly (as all ghosts do eventually), their pieces scattered too far and wide, their remnants dissolving in the spaces between the people and places they had loved.

And as much as Dean would love to believe it, there's no way Ben Braeden is the exception to that rule; the first person in the history of eternity to somehow make the afterlife his bitch. No way he won't eventually lose control, and in Dean's experience (and his crappy run of luck), it'll be sooner rather than later.

Ben's still smiling that shit-eating grin of his, though, so when Dean smiles back at him, it's genuine.

Ben gestures to the game that surrounds him. "Hey, you guys wanna play Scattergories? I was just kicking Mom's ass."

"Ben, hon, you gotta cool it with the language," Lisa chides, but there's no heat behind her words. She's smiling at him, and a moment later she sits down next to him on the floor, reaching for a 26-sided die that holds every letter of the alphabet.

"I was actually planning on doing a bit more research tonight," Sam answers, already backing out of the room. He shoots a loaded glance at Dean, but Dean just squints at him, not sure what the message behind it is. Ben is staring up at him expectantly and Lisa is avoiding all eye contact and Dean's not really sure he can think of a weirder situation than sitting down to play a board game he's never even heard of with this particular company at this particular moment, but he clicks his teeth together and says 'Sure.'

Turns out the game is pretty simple.

Someone rolls the die, and whichever letter it lands on is the letter for that particular round. Then a list with categories is chosen, and everyone has two minutes to fill in as much of their list as they can, using only words that begin with the letter that's been rolled. When time's up, you see who has the most filled out. If you get the same answer as someone else, neither of them counts.

After a short explanation of the rules, provided by Ben, Lisa rolls the letter 'B', and the first round begins. Dean stares down at his list, listening to the aggravating _tick tick_ of the timer.

1.A Boy's Name

 _Ben,_ Dean thinks automatically, but doesn't write it down. He's fairly certain that will be everyone else's answer, too.

2\. Something You're Afraid Of

Dean scoffs a little at that one. _Boggarts. Banshees_ , he lists off in his head. But he's not actually afraid of those kinds of monsters. It's been a long time since their regular gigs had the ability to genuinely spook him, especially since Purgatory. Dean twirls the pencil in his fingers, thinking.

 _Becoming a fucking monster._

That one's true at least, but he doesn't even think about writing it down.

3\. Items In Your Bag

 _Knives, guns, machetes...blades_ , Dean thinks, scribbling it down. He erases it a second later. _Idiot. No one else has a damn blade in their bag._

 _Batteries_ , he writes instead, and still that seems wrong. He tries to think of what Lisa used to pack into her purse in the mornings and comes up blank. It's not really something he'd been keen to pay attention to at the time. He goes to the next item on the list.

4\. Spices/Herbs

 _Bacopa,_ used for cleansing rituals _._ Dean crosses that one off, too. He writes _Basil_ instead.

5\. Something that burns

 _Borax_ , Dean almost writes. Then remembers that only works if you're a Leviathan. _Brands,_ he thinks, shaking his head at the almost-lost memory of a deranged hillbilly pushing a poker into his shoulder. At least he knows that answer is accurate.

6\. Something in this room

 _Bullshit_. This is _Bullshit_ , is what this is. Sitting here playing a board game while Lisa's life hangs in the balance. While something could be peeking in the window right this second, waiting for him to shuffle off to bed so it can take her away from him all over again. Even though he doesn't have her. Even though he lost the right to have any kind of claim to her years ago now.

The timer goes off, and Dean jumps so badly that Ben flickers a little bit next to him. Lisa freezes, staring at both of them.

Ben clears his throat. "I wrote Bartholomew for number one," he says, breaking the heavy silence.

Lisa unfreezes, forces a chuckle. "Wish I'd thought of that for you," she teases. "We could've called you 'Bart' for short. I put 'Bradley.'"

Ben purses his lips in an over-exaggerated frown. "Mom, I'm hurt. Why not Ben?"

"I figured _you'd_ write it down!" Lisa volleys, sticking her tongue out at him. "Besides, I picked it when it _counted_. That's why your name _isn't_ Bartholomew."

"Fair enough," Ben allows. "Dean, what'd you write?"

Dean stares down at his paper. "Beau," he lies. That spot is still blank.

"Alright," Lisa declares. "Everybody gets a point. Number two…"

They continue on all the way down the list of twelve items. Dean hadn't even made it to half of the categories, but he keeps his sheet of paper angled towards himself and makes most of them up on the spot. He 'wins' the first round by one point. They play six more rounds before Lisa calls it, announcing that it's time for bed. Ben groans.

"Come on, Mom. I don't even need to sleep!" he whines.

"Yeah, well, I'm exhausted," says Lisa. "Everybody's had a long couple of days."

Dean almost snorts at the understatement. "Your mom's right, Ben," he says instead. "Probably not a bad idea to let your body rest. Can't be easy picking up pens and keeping yourself visible all the time like this. You deserve a break."

Lisa's eyebrows droop in concern. Her eyes flick from Ben over to Dean and back again. "Is that true, honey? Are you having trouble staying...like this?"

"Nope," Ben shakes his head, glowering at Dean. "I feel good." He must see something in Lisa's expression, because he smiles at her reassuringly. "I promise, Mom. I'm good."

Lisa bites her lip and nods, not seeming entirely convinced.

"Well, keep your strength up," Dean says. "We've still got some stuff to figure out before...I mean…" he pauses, wishing he'd just shut the hell up. Because how does he end that sentence? _Yeah, plenty of stuff to get accomplished before we send you away forever_. "...you should just be smart about this," he finishes lamely. Ben rolls his eyes good-naturedly.

"Whatever you say," he agrees easily, rolling to his feet and making his way towards the stairs. He flickers on the way, disappearing completely before he's made it little more than halfway up the steps.

Lisa clears her throat, starts gathering up the pieces of the game. Lisa has always been clear-headed when it comes to crazy, even his particular brand of it, but he wonders how much more of this insanity she can possibly take. It seems unfair to place Lisa under the category of 'normal people,' but it's what she is, and Dean knows there's no way she could have ever been prepared for the events of the last few days. Dean hands her back the pencil he'd been using, watching her carefully while she organizes everything back into the box.

"Need me to make up the couch for you again, or is the hallway okay?" she asks.

Dean smiles good-naturedly at the jab. "Don't worry about it. Couch is perfect."

Lisa nods, but she glances over at the untouched blankets, uncertain. "Do you...are the blankets okay?"

"Yeah it's not..." Dean pauses, rolling his tongue when he catches where her eyes go. He knows what she's really asking. "There's nothing wrong with the couch."

Lisa gets to her feet, the Scattergories box in her hands, and Dean follows her lead.

"Dean?"

Dean sighs, straightening a little and surrendering himself to what he knows comes next. "Yeah?"

"Will you tell me about Castiel?"

Dean lets out a sharp breath and stares at his feet. This isn't the question he was expecting. "Why?" he asks.

"I'm just curious," Lisa shrugs. "I guess I want to know more about the thing that took my memories."

Dean nods his understanding, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. "You...it's complicated," he says, finally, with not a shade of eloquence. He bows his head again in frustration.

"Try me," coaxes Lisa.

Another long pause, and Dean's words come tumbling out before he can stop them. "How do you feel about angels?"

Lisa blinks. "Harp carrying, hymn singing angels?"

"Not quite," Dean shakes his head, smiling sadly, wishing he'd never given her an answer. Dean imagines Lisa is the kind of person who wants to believe angels are watching over the people she loves. He imagines she's like Mary that way, and he's shattering that part of her. As if he hasn't already taken enough.

But "Oh boy," is all Lisa says, and she doesn't seem crushed, just contemplative. "Maybe I don't want to know. Then again, if Castiel _is_ an angel, I feel a bit better about having him poke around inside my head."

Dean nods, not bothering to tell her all the reasons she's wrong about that. About all the ways in which even _Cas_ had let them down.

"You didn't use the pillows. Or the blankets," Lisa says after another short silence, gesturing to the couch with one hand. "I mean, I know you got...distracted and you ended up in the front hall. But even before then- all the blankets were on the ground, folded. What's that about?"

"Wasn't cold."

"Dean."

Dean rubs a hand along his forehead, trying to push back the headache he feels forming behind his eye sockets.

"Look, Lisa. There's a lot you still don't know. There's things you just _shouldn't_ know," he tries to explain, almost pleading. "Things that make this world too big and too goddamn scary. I think it's best to keep you away from that. Seems like even just knowing me for that short amount of time made you a magnet for the crap that's out there. I don't wanna make it worse."

Lisa tilts her head, considering. "Doesn't the not knowing make it worse? Isn't that what gets you killed?"

Dean doesn't answer. Can't answer, because he's not sure he has one. This is the same dilemma he faced just a few years ago. To stay and protect them, or to _leave_ and protect them. To teach them everything he knew, or to keep them as far away from it as possible. John Winchester had the same choice to make, and his and Sam's lives are evidence to one side of that argument. But Dean wouldn't wish this life on anybody, and technically it's not like they've exactly _survived_ because of what their dad taught them. In other words, neither option could be counted as a win.

"Your brother said you went somewhere this past year," Lisa says, finally, when she realizes Dean's not saying anything. Dean wonders why she doesn't just go to bed. He wonders why she's spending more time around him than she needs to. It's either strength or curiosity or both, Dean can't decide.

"Mhm," he affirms. Knows she'll just keep digging until she's done. He can ride this out, though. He can give short, clipped answers until she gets frustrated enough to throw her hands in the air and storm off. It worked in the year he was living with her, and it will work now.

"Where?" Lisa asks.

Dean shakes his head. "Hard to describe."

"Summarize," Lisa urges, parroting his strategy.

Dean thinks about lying. He thinks about giving her some sarcastic answer about his trip to the Bermuda Triangle or his hot-air balloon ride around the world. But he's sick of holding everything in all the time, sick of making the same mistakes over and over again, never letting her _see_ him. He'd been afraid, when he lost Sam, that if he showed her his ugly insides, she'd take one look at all the ragged edges buried there and leave him to his own destruction. It would've been the smart decision, after all. But maybe if he'd let her in more completely, shared more of his world with her, he could've saved Ben.

"Monster afterlife," is his deadpan response.

Lisa blinks hard at that one, mouth open in a silent, gaping question she's not sure how to ask. Dean knows she hadn't been expecting a real answer. And obviously she hadn't been expecting an answer like _that_.

"Bu...but you...you're…" Lisa gulps.

Dean smiles his understanding. It's not a happy smile. "See you in the morning, Lisa," he says, reaching around her to grab one of the blankets off the floor, giving her an out. She stands stock still for another long second, Scattergories box still pressed tight against her chest. Dean's not facing her anymore, but he knows she almost says something else before deciding against it. Instead, she shakes her head and shuffles off towards her room. Dean listens to her hasty retreat as he spreads the blanket over the couch, reaching for a pillow next. He waits until he knows she's out of sight before he lets the pillows and blankets drop back to the floor, sound like a soft exhale.

* * *

 **Full disclosure: there were quite a few last-minute edits in this chapter, so I apologize for any errors that might be hovering around. See you next week!**


	10. Chapter 10

**Excuse time: I had some friends visit from out of town and completely forgot to post yesterday. Please excuse the day late…I don't think I'm a dollar short, so at least there's that!**

* * *

 **~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ CHAPTER 10 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 _Wherever he is, it's dark. There's nothing here, and by that he quite literally means_ nothing _. It's just this big, blank empty space, and he's currently doing everything he can not to have a panic attack. He tries to slow his breathing, listening for the pulse of his own heartbeat against his ears, against the silence. It takes him a moment, but he finds it, starts counting off beats until he can finally see a little patch of clear inside the darkness._

 _The little patch grows in front of him until it forms itself into a giant window for him to peer through. He presses his hands up against the glass and squints into the space before him, curious. It is dark there, too, on the other side of the glass. A pit of blackness. Suddenly, a vampire lurches itself straight at him, teeth bared and long nails outstretched. He jumps back, watching as the vampire presses up against the glass, but doesn't make so much as a crack. It stays there; teeth gnawing at him, even though there's no way the thing can reach him here. He's so distracted by the spectacle that it takes him a long moment to start distinguishing shapes from the other side of the strange window._

 _At first it's just a face here and there: a Rugaru to his left, two werewolves picking meat from between their teeth just a few feet over. He looks for the remnants of their meal, and that's when it all comes into focus- when he realizes there is not an inch of space on the other side of the glass not taken up by the limbs or teeth or claws of a monster. Packed together like salt grains inside a shotgun casing, choking on each other's air and fighting for mere millimeters of space. And the meal the werewolves are chewing on? It looks like a Wraith, but he's too busy battling back the nausea rising in his throat to take too long of a look._

 _And suddenly, it's worse._

 _It's a million times worse._

 _Because directly in the center of all the chaos and carnage and gnashing of teeth is a figure he recognizes._

 _It's his brother. Screaming._

Sam knows he comes awake without making a sound, but his heart is pumping rapidly beneath his t-shirt and he can feel himself sweating beneath the covers. He lies there in the quiet hours of the too-early morning, trying to push the images of the nightmare out of his head, but they stick fast and he can't seem to shake it off. He needs to see his brother, to make sure Dean's real. It's the only thing he can think of that will help, so Sam opens the door to the guestroom slowly and quietly, slipping into the hall. He pauses when he reaches the living room, eyes searching out the lump on the couch that is undoubtedly Dean Winchester, made especially evident by the fact that there are no blankets covering him. They've been tossed lightly onto the floor, and Sam has the sudden urge to grab one and lay it over his brother. He resists that urge. He doesn't see the Purgatory blade, but Sam's not dumb enough to believe Dean is anywhere close to unarmed.

Dean is awake on Sam's next blink, as if sensing his little brother's eyes on him. He comes back to consciousness harshly; a sharp intake of breath that lets Sam know his brother wasn't having a particularly peaceful night of rest, either. Dean lets his head fall back against the armrest of the couch, muscles loosening once he's tagged his surroundings. And there is a moment, then, between sleeping and wakefulness, where the brothers stare at each other from across the room, like two strangers lost in a daze of dreaming.

Finally, Dean clears his throat and shifts his head, and some invisible switch is flipped back. The moment breaks, and Sam approaches the couch. Dean sits up, scooting over to make room. Embarrassingly unsure, Sam sits down next to him, not making eye contact.

"Sorry I woke you," he mutters, aware of just how loud he sounds within the echoing walls of Lisa's house.

"S'okay," Dean sniffs. "Don't think I was really sleeping anyway."

They sit in silence for a long time, just listening to each other breathe the way they used to when they were sharing countless motel rooms together and it was late and Dad should've been back already. Just filling the space with each other's presence and not needing anything else. Not _having_ anything else. They're not used to having this much space to fill.

"The girl that you... " Dean starts suddenly, and Sam whips his head around to stare at his brother. He's not sure what words he'd been expecting next, if he'd been expecting any at all, but those were definitely not the ones he would've put his money on. "A...Amelia?" Dean stumbles hesitantly over the name, like he's not sure he has the right to say it. "Do you think she was the one? Do you think she was your only shot? Besides Jess."

Sam takes a long time to answer, thinking it over. "I don't know," he says finally. "It felt like it sometimes, I think. Maybe."

More silence.

"Sometimes I think Lisa was mine, too," Dean admits. They're still not looking at each other. Just staring straight ahead like they're in the Impala and it's the empty road in front of them, highway lines and trees flying past as they glide over the asphalt. It's always been easier for them to talk that way. "And other times I just think none of it was real, you know?"

"I'm sure it was real, Dean," Sam soothes, but the words come out stilted, hesitant. He's wondered the same about Amelia, too. He hadn't wanted to, but there is a part of him that wonders if she would have meant the same thing to him had Dean still been beside him when they'd met. If he had simply clung to her the way a shipwrecked sailor refuses to let go of the life-raft that keeps him afloat.

Dean smiles sadly, and Sam barely catches the expression. "I guess reality is subjective for us, isn't it?"

"You could say that," Sam agrees. And then, because he is: "I'm sorry."

"Me too," answers Dean. He rubs his hands together, feeling the friction between his palms. "I'm sorry you lost Amelia. This life doesn't...it's not very forgiving. We don't get to keep much."

Another pause sits between them, filled with all the directions this conversation could go in.

"Dean?" Sam asks, uncertain, choosing the direction for both of them.

"Yeah?"

"Will you tell me about it? About Purgatory?"

"I did," Dean says, but it doesn't sound like even he believes it. Because _"It was bloody. Messy. Thirty-one flavors of bottom-dwelling nasties"_ doesn't quite seem to cover whatever Dean saw. Whatever he became.

"Not really," Sam nudges.

Dean lets out a sigh. Sam feels him shift on the couch, but they still haven't faced each other, and Sam doesn't want to risk breaking this early morning spell. They're talking, really talking, for the first time in a long time.

"I don't know, Sammy," Dean mumbles. "You see how I am now. What that place made of me. I don't think I want you to know. I don't think I…"

Dean stops and doesn't start again for a long time. Just shakes his head and rubs both hands over his eyes. Sam rides the quiet. Waits.

"I almost told Lisa," Dean continues after a while, like he never stopped. "I thought maybe I owed it to her or something. If she asks for anything, it's like I can't say no, you know? I already took so much away. But I started to and then her face...she just. I don't wanna spread this shit around, you know?"

"I get it Dean, I do," Sam assures. "I just think it might help."

"Help who?"

"Help you. Me. Maybe both?"

"Doubt it," Dean says without pause.

Sam snorts, finally angles himself so he can see Dean's profile. "You're such an ass."

"I know," comes Dean's reply. It's laden with self-depreciating heaviness, and he doesn't turn to meet Sam's eyes, so Sam goes back to staring at the fireplace in front of them. They sit like that in the dark. The blankets are still spread about the floor, crumpled and unused.

"She can't die, Sam. Not her," Dean says suddenly, and then swallows hard like he wants to take the words back. Like he didn't mean to let them slip out into open air.

"I know," Sam whispers, leaning just enough that he can feel his shoulder bump up against Dean's. Dean sinks into him a little, and it feels almost like the beginnings of forgiveness. Like something they lost is finally making its way back to them. Sam hopes that's what it is. He sighs, long and deep. "I know."

* * *

Sam won't let Lisa cook again. He insists on picking something up for breakfast before they run her out of house and home. She just shrugs, says it's no big deal either way. Says to take her car- it's a small town and if they're gonna be around for awhile, they might as well try to blend in. So Sam's in Lisa's Hyundai Santa Fe, admiring the way he doesn't feel every stray pebble all the way up through his boots, and he's thinking about what Dean and Lisa and Ben must be talking about now that it's just the three of them. He wonders if there is anything healing about this situation, or if this reunion was as enormous of a mistake as he'd initially believe it to be.

But after his conversation with Dean last night, Sam can't fully say he regrets coming here. To talk with his brother like that, to listen and be listened to- it's something they both needed, and Sam's not sure they would've gotten to that point so fast (or at all) without the help of Lisa and Ben. Sam turns his attention outward to the road, searching out a waffle house or some kind of family diner. He's thinking pancakes. Maybe French toast. Jeez, when was the last time they'd had French toast? He's lost in deciding if it was Stanford for him or maybe once at Bobby's place a few years back (or had that been loaded waffles?) when he catches sight of the lone figure at the gas station. Sam's not sure why the guy unscrewing his gas cap stirs a reaction, but he's been hunting long enough to know it means something. He pulls slowly into the station beneath the overhang, maneuvering Lisa's car around to the pump on the opposite side of the figure in the baseball hat and glasses. And that in itself is a little suspicious, because it's not really all that sunny of a day.

Sam gets out of the car slowly, casually. He pretends to fumble for his wallet, stealing glances at the guy from between the pumps. And if Sam didn't grow up in the life, if he hadn't spent countless hours memorizing the faces of victims and searching out the things no one sees, he doubts he would've been able to recognize Phil Moorhead, the man who'd found a way to beat the stock market. But he does, and it's definitely him. Sam doesn't let his expression change at the realization, just continues with the facade of getting gas.

Phil finishes at his own pump, refastening the cap and replacing the nozzle. Sam watches him climb back into his car and pull away, waiting until he's turning right out of the station before he slides his own nozzle back into place and climbs into the driver's seat. Once he's got a lock on Phil, Sam calls Dean. He picks up on the second ring.

"Yeah?"

"Found Moorhead," Sam says, not mincing words. "I'm tailing him now. I'll let you know where I end up."

"Wait, who?" Dean asks, momentarily confused.

"Philip Moorhead," Sam repeats.

"Jordan Belfort wannabe?" Dean asks after a moment.

"Yep."

"Thought he went missing."

"Well, like I said, I found him," Sam shrugs against the phone.

"Shit, okay," Dean says, and Sam can picture his short nod, the way he's probably worrying at his lip a little bit while he talks. "Where are you now?"

Sam catches the next street sign, still keeping one eye on Phil's car. "I'm on Sylvan. Dean, I said I'll let you know where I end up. It's all good."

"East or west on Sylvan?" Dean insists. Sam can hear him shuffling things around in the background. "You might need backup."

"Yeah, and I'll _call_ you for backup when I figure out where the hell he's going," Sam reasons. "I'm hanging up now."

Dean growls a little. "Don't you dare."

"Call you back in a bit." Sam ends the call, sliding behind a Toyota to keep some distance between himself and Phil's car. He doesn't mean to be harsh, but he doesn't want to lose Phil and there's no reason to believe the guy's dangerous at this point. Sam knows he's been out of the game for a while, but he still remembers how to do this. Sam refrains from rolling his eyes when his phone lights up a few seconds later, Dean's name blinking up at him. He ignores the call. And the next three after that.

Phil stops at a hotel just outside of town. Sam watches from the street while he parks, emerging from the car with a few grocery bags dangling from his wrists and a hotel key card balanced delicately between his teeth. Once Phil disappears inside, Sam pulls into the parking lot, too, choosing a spot on the opposite end of the lot to leave Lisa's car. Gun tucked into his waistband, he moves for the lobby doors, pausing for an extra moment before he inches into the entryway. The front desk is empty, which is a blessing, and Sam can just see the heel of Phil's shoe as he disappears around the corner and down the hallway. Sam follows after, turning the same corner in time to see Phil open Room 112, letting the door fall closed behind him. The hunter slips back outside and starts counting, looking for the right window. The curtains in Phil's room are slightly parted, just enough that Sam can catch a glimpse of him.

Grocery bags already settled on the counter in the mini kitchenette, Sam watches as Phil begins to unpack them, but it doesn't hold his attention for long. He's too busy registering first the black powder that lines the door, and second, the Devil's shoestring peppered sporadically around the room. Sam is just turning his attention back to the various herbs Phil is unpacking from his bag when his phone rings again, vibrating wildly inside his pocket. Sam ducks below the window and slides the phone out in one motion, bringing it to his ear even as he puts as much distance as he can between himself and Phil's room.

" _What_?" Sam growls into the phone.

"Sam, what the hell?" is Dean's answering question. "Where are you? Where's Phil?"

"Dean, I told you I'd call. You gotta trust me, man." He rubs a thumb over his nose, casts a glance at the hotel's sign. He marvels at how quickly he and his brother have made the transition back to arguing and wonders if it could be a good thing. This kind of interaction, at least, is familiar. "Phil's at a place outside of town. Hemlock Hotel, green roof."

"And?" Dean presses.

"And we'll talk when you get here. Bring my suit."

"I don't think now is the time for a swim break, Sammy," Dean answers coolly.

Sam rolls his jaw, feels the frustration leak into his voice. "Not my _swim_ suit you idiot. Fed suit."

"I know. I just thoroughly enjoy pissing you off," Dean says, and there's none of the usual levity that should accompany the jab. "Next time I guess I'll just ignore your calls. Works on me."

Sam sighs, wishing for the tone of last night's conversation. "I told you I'd call when I learned more."

"Yeah well. I'm on my way," says Dean. "Don't _learn_ anything else until I get there."

"What about Lisa?" Sam asks. He feels Dean's hesitation over the line, the internal wrestling match that seems to always be happening inside his big brother's head these days.

"We'll hurry back," is what Dean finally says.

Sam nods into the phone. "See you soon."

"Stay away from the guy til I get there."

* * *

 **See ya next week.**


	11. Chapter 11

**So I'm a little early but I'm currently out of town and not sure what the heck I'll be doing tomorrow. I've got a second here and now, and I don't wanna be late with another post, so here we are. Edits are last minute, so feel free to point out any mistakes you might see (just...nicely =P).**

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ CHAPTER 11 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Dean. Where the hell are my socks?"

Dean's standing next to the sink in the public bathroom of the hotel (and how fancy, that this hotel has a bathroom just inside the lobby. Not something they're used to.) and he can hear Sam shuffling around on the other side of the stall, no doubt looking for said socks. Dean closes his eyes and pictures them curled up in the corner of Sam's duffle bag. Without a doubt, that's where they still are.

Dean clears his throat, means to say something funny and ends up not saying anything at all. Sam sighs, letting that be his answer. "Of course," Dean hears him mutter under his breath.

"The guy's not gonna be looking at your freakin' _socks_ ," Dean says, finally. "Come on Sammy. Today."

Dean casts his eyes to the floor and catches a glimpse of one of Sam's white-socked feet sliding into a shiny, brown shoe. He blinks, directs his attention to the bathroom mirror across from him.

And there's Ben.

" _Shit_ ," Dean half-yells, flinching away from the kid's sudden appearance just a few feet to his left. Ben looks confused, maybe a little stricken, standing frozen in the middle of the bathroom. Alarmed by his brother's outburst, Sam practically knocks the stall door off on his way out, gun raised.

"Wha…?" he starts to ask, then grimaces worriedly when he sees Ben. He tucks the gun back into his pants and leans back into the stall, snatching up the plastic bag filled with his other clothes. "Ben, what are you doing here?"

Ben unfreezes enough to shake his head. "I...I'm not sure. One second I was back at the house and the next…" he gestures vaguely to the space around him. Dean lays a comforting hand on his shoulder, pats it twice.

"Ben, I'm so sorry. I wasn't even thinking I just... I got too far away."

Ben swallows hard and locks his jaw, and Sam almost gasps aloud at how much of _Dean_ sits in the expression.

"You just left?" Sam asks, immediately regretting the judgement in his own voice, especially when Dean glares at him.

"I...you needed…" Dean huffs. "I mean, yeah. I called out to Lisa, said I was leaving…"

Sam bites his lip. "Okay, we'll talk about your manners later, I guess" He turns his attention to Ben, who finally seems to have regained his bearings and now looks more annoyed than anything. "Ben, you good?"

Ben nods. "M'okay." The kid takes in his surroundings. "What are you guys even doing here?"

"Interviewing a...possible suspect," Sam says. Truth be told, they have no idea what Phil is right now. He could very well be no one, and this could all be a colossal waste of time. Sam figures they'd better figure it out, either way. "We'll drop my clothes in the car, and then we'll go say hi to Phil."

Ben rolls his eyes and shrugs, and not too many minutes later, the three of them are standing in front of Phil's hotel room door. Dean raps twice on the wood and waits. Phil answers fairly quickly, chain unlatched, but he keeps the door between himself and the strangers in front of him.

"Uh, hi," he says, a little nervously. "Can I help you folks?"

"We're hoping so," Sam says. "Mr. Moorhead, is it?"

Phil nods, shifting on his feet. "Yes that's correct."

"Mr. Moorhead, we'd like to discuss some inconsistencies with your taxes over the last few years. Do you mind if we come in for a moment?"

Phil gives a startled half-smile, shaking his head a little in disbelief. "I can assure you I'm a good ol' tax-paying citizen, my friends. Would gladly invite you in, but can I first see some identification, if you don't mind?"

The brothers nod, pulling out the rarely used IRS cards. Phil examines them for a moment and shrugs. "I've just bought some tea. Come on in and we'll sort this out, whatever the problem may be."

Phil turns his back, letting Sam, Dean, and an invisible Ben walk through the door. Sam closes it softly behind him, and the hunters take a seat at the two stools beside the kitchenette when Phil gestures to them. Ben looks around for a moment.

"I'm gonna snoop around, see if I can find anything weird," he says, taking off towards the bed that sits off to their left. Dean gives an imperceptible nod in Ben's direction. The room is far nicer than any of the hotels the brothers have stayed in, and Sam watches somewhat enviously as Phil begins to boil water on the small stove, reaching to grab three crisp, white mugs from the cupboard above his head.

"I've got chamomile and green tea, whichever you like," Phil says, setting the mugs on the counter in front of them.

Sam senses Dean bristling beside him. "Ah that's not really necessary," Dean insists, eyes roaming around the room. "We just have a few questions and then we'll be out of your hair."

Phil smiles, rubbing a hand over his balding head. "Don't have much of that left anyway," he jokes, clearing his throat uncomfortably when the line doesn't warrant a response from either Winchester. Ben, on the other hand, snickers from where he kneels beside the bed, reading through some papers on the bedside table. "Well, ask away," Phil continues after an uneasy pause.

"Right," Sam says, clearing his throat also. "So, Mr. Moorhead. Your income changed fairly drastically a little over a decade ago, correct?"

"Ah, yes," Phil is back to smiling. "Yes, I had quite a spell of good fortune about...oh gosh...twelve years ago now? But I promise you fellas, everything's been reported. Taxes paid, everything in order." Phil smacks his hands lightly on the counter. "Obviously this isn't my home residence, so I don't have the paperwork with me, but I'm sure I could track it down for you if you need it. I'm still not quite sure what you want, you see…"

"Mr. Moorhead, we're actually kind of curious about how this good fortune came about," Sam interrupts.

Phil's smile morphs to one of perplexity. "You uh…" he pauses. "You want to know how I got rich, essentially?" he chuckles lightly. "I gotta ask: is this a personal question or a professional one?"

"Strictly professional, sir," Sam assures.

"For me it's a little personal," Dean interjects.

Sam shoots him a glare, but Dean ignores him. He smiles at Phil. "I mean, come on. We're numbers guys, obviously," Dean continues, gesturing to himself and Sam. He tries to keep his eyes on Phil, even as Ben starts moving back into his line of sight, beelining for the kitchen where Phil is standing. "This is what we do," he says while Ben stares curiously at the boxes of tea sitting beside the stove. "But you? Phil, my man, that's quite a jump you made in not a lot of time. So...how the heck did you do it?"

Phil puts his hands up in mock surrender. "Look guys, I'm not sure what you think I…"

"Just answer the question, please, sir," Sam presses. "We'd like to be on our way."

"Stock market, is all I can say," insists Phil. The water begins to boil, so Phil breaks eye contact for a moment to shut off the stove. He gestures to the two boxes of tea, raising his eyebrow in a question.

"Green, please," Sam answers.

Dean grimaces. "No thanks."

Phil shrugs, pouring the water into two mugs. "Did some research, started investing," he continues. "Got lucky."

"Very lucky," Sam affirms, taking the tea Phil offers him and dunking the bag into his mug.

Phils shrugs, dunking his own tea. "I do feel the need to ask: am I being accused of something?"

"No, Phil, not at all," Dean says, voice dipped in honey the way he never really talks. And then his tone shifts into something just a little more urgent, just an edge of danger tinting the words. Sam's not sure if Phil even knows what he's sensing in that tone, but it's obvious it has an effect on him. "But just...come on. That can't be _it_. There's gotta be more to this story. I mean, we've heard the whispers around town. You're a bit of a celebrity back there."

Sam flicks a look over to Dean, but it gets ignored. And despite the fact that Ben has now moved to stand almost directly behind Phil, examining his fading hairline and the beginnings of a beard, Dean's entire focus rests on the man in front of him. And the man in front of him is starting to sweat. Just a few beads glinting on his forehead, but it's enough for Sam to know they've got him.

"Yes, well. You know how people talk," Phil chuckles. It is not the same lighthearted laugh from before.

"Phil. Level with us," Sam cuts in. In the back of his mind, he's thinking about how easy this part still is for them. Falling into step like they haven't missed a beat, let alone an entire album's worth of songs in this past year. But they are still a well-oiled machine, cogs losing rust. "You're a Journalism major. How do you suddenly become the dude from Limitless practically overnight?"

Dean raises his eyebrows at that, lips pursed in surprise and a little bit of amusement at Sam's reference. Sam shrugs in his direction, eyes still on Phil.

"That was a good film," Phil says, pointing at Sam.

"Eh. Had its moments," Dean says.

Sam doesn't say anything else. Now it's just a waiting game. Both Winchesters stare Phil down, letting those first few beads of sweat drip down along his forehead. Finally, after a long, tense moment broken only by a sneeze from Ben that goes unheard by Phil, the man sighs.

"Okay. Look," he starts. "Will you promise that this doesn't leave this room? As professionals, can you just agree to keep this amongst yourselves? You say you've talked to some people, so you know this town already thinks I'm a little cuckoo."

Sam nods. "Of course, sir," he says at the same time Dean says "Completely confidential."

They're waiting to hear about a demon deal. They're waiting to hear about Phil at a dark crossroads in the middle of the night, a box filled with his picture and some yarrow. Phil smiles sheepishly, almost embarrassed.

"It was my dog."

Sam tries to keep his features blank. Beside him, he feels Dean swallow a snort before it can make its way past his lips.

"Excuse me?" Dean asks.

"Pepper," Phil says, nodding urgently. "Pepper was my advisor, in a way."

Dean stares at Phil blankly. "Yeah, you're really gonna have to elaborate."

Phil clears his throat and begins speaking as though explaining algebra to an eight year old. "I was on my computer one day, trying to break into the stock market like I said, and suddenly Pepper comes running into the room, ready for his walk. Only he gets a little too excited, and he smacks my keyboard with his nose. Accidentally buys me a stock with this company called Prestige. I was pissed, obviously, but then the damndest thing happened. Turns out it was a good move. Made me a nice little chunk of change. So I started…" he pauses, takes a sip of his tea. Behind him, Ben moves so that he's standing beside Dean, elbows resting on the counter. He looks incredibly amused. "Pepper became my guide. He'd point to things on the screen, with his nose of course, and I'd buy them. And he never once steered me wrong."

Neither Sam nor Dean is quite able to come up with a valid response. Sam's mind is whirring, still processing the ridiculousness of what they're listening to. But Phil sounds so _genuine_ , and now there's a new look on his face: grief.

"My dear Pepper passed away just four days ago," he explains, sniffling a little. "I lost it, I really did. That dog saved my life. My family's life. So I ran. Rented a room here. I just. I needed to be alone for a while."

"Oh my _god_ ," Ben snickers. "This guy thinks his _dog_ was a stock market expert?"

"Shhh," Dean hisses, then freezes. Phil is staring at him strangely, so Dean turns the sound into a somewhat over-acted sneeze.

"Bless you," Phil and Sam say at the same time.

"Thanks. Sorry," Dean nods, taking the tissue Phil has offered to him. "So that sucks. About your dog, I mean."

"Yes, it certainly does," Phil agrees. And then his tone becomes a bit lighter. "Would you like to see a picture? Of Pepper?"

Twenty minutes and approximately four hundred pictures of the giant Great Dane known as Pepper later, Sam and Dean finally make their escape from Phil's room, Ben guffawing behind them.

"That guy is terrible," Ben bursts out the moment the door has closed behind them. "Like... _terrible_. I think I hate him."

"Seems alright to me," Sam smiles, amused. "A little nuts and maybe too intense about his dog, but hey."

"A _little_ nuts? Sam, the guy had a yearly photoshoot with the damn mutt. I'm surprised he didn't make a calendar," says Dean, rolling his eyes. They start moving down the hall, back towards the parking lot.

"It's not a sin to love your dog, Dean," Sam counters. He thinks of Riot, briefly.

"I say you guys kill him, just in case he's evil," Ben says as they reach the lobby doors, tone matter-of-fact.

Dean raises an eyebrow, pauses with one hand on the door to get a better look at Ben. "Ben. We can't just go killing people based off of an unspecified 'I hate him' hunch."

Sam reaches into his back pocket for Lisa's car keys. "Well," he counters, twirling them around his finger, "wouldn't be the first time."

Dean pushes through the doors, calling back over his shoulder. "That feels like a personal blow."

"It is," Sam confirms, ushering Ben through the entryway before he exits the hotel. "Dean, you work on ninety percent instinct. The other day you said we couldn't go into a bagel shop because the font on the sign was stupid."

"No one uses Comic Sans professionally, Sam. There's no place for it," Dean insists. They've almost reached the car. "And anyway, instinct is the reason I'm still alive."

"Now _that_ feels like a personal blow," Ben interjects with a laugh.

Dean freezes beside Lisa's car, fingers wrapped around the door handle. His expression hardens.

"Too soon?" Ben asks timidly. Sam grimaces, opening the door to the driver's seat.

Still outside the car, Dean turns to face Ben, a sad smile on his face. "It'll always be too soon, kid."

He hops into the passenger seat, and Ben follows suit, sliding into the back. He doesn't bother opening the car door first. Sam pulls out of the hotel parking lot, maneuvering them back onto the road.

"Oh shit," Dean curses. Sam looks over to see him staring down at his phone.

"What is it?" he asks.

Dean ignores Sam, twisting around to look at Ben. "Ben, when you...left. You said it was abrupt, right? Like you wouldn't have had time to tell your mom that you were about to pull a disappearing act?"

Dean's thumb sweeps over his phone screen while he talks, and Sam catches a glimpse of thirteen missed calls from Lisa.

"Oh _shit_ ," Ben reiterates, not needing to see Dean's phone to understand what's happened. Dean dials quickly and puts the phone up to his ear, shooting a stern glance at Ben.

"Watch your language," he mutters, but his entire body stiffens a moment later when Lisa picks up. He doesn't even get the chance to say anything. .

" _Dean. Dean, he's gone,"_ she rasps into the phone, and there's no doubt she's crying. " _He's_ gone _. One minute he was here and then...and then…."_

"Lis, it's okay," Dean soothes, cutting her off. "We've got him. He's here with us. Hold on. Hold on…"

He puts the phone on speaker, reaches over the backseat to put it next to Ben.

"Ben, tell your mom what happened," Dean instructs, thrusting the phone towards him.

Ben doesn't take the phone from Dean, hands clasped tightly in his lap, but he speaks into it. "Hey mom," he says. Lisa lets out an overwhelmed breath, sobs becoming even more pronounced.

" _Ben_ ," she rasps.

"I'm sorry, it just happened!" Ben says, talking too fast. "One minute I was there with you, and the next I just kinda got zapped to where Dean was. I'm so sorry, Mom. I didn't know…"

" _Okay, honey,"_ Lisa sniffs, cutting him off. _"That's okay. I'm just so glad you're...it's okay. Are you on your way back? Are you coming back now?"_

"Yeah," Ben nods into the phone, his own tone more relaxed now that his mom seems to have regained control of herself. Sam steps on the gas a little bit. "Yeah, we're coming back now. Mom, I'm sorry."

" _Okay,"_ Lisa says again. _"Okay, I'll see you soon then. I love you. I love you, Ben."_

"I love you, Mom," Ben says without hesitation. There are a few tears shining in his eyes, but he just takes a few deep breaths and nods at Dean to take the phone back. Dean obliges, taking it off speaker and jamming it back up next to his ear.

"Lis, I'm sorry. I didn't think…"

 _"See you back at home,"_ Lisa mutters. The line goes dead.

* * *

 **Enjoy the rest of your week!**


	12. Chapter 12

**Running a little behind today, but better late than never I suppose! Enjoy!**

 **~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ CHAPTER 12 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

The house is empty.

Dean knows it the moment they've pulled into the driveway, and he's already at the garage door entrance, gun in his hand before Sam's shifted the car into Park. He opens the door and moves into the house with his gun raised, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. He feels Ben flanking his right side. The kid doesn't ask any questions, just accepts that something's wrong and falls into step beside Dean. There's no sign of a struggle, not a single piece of furniture moved out of place, but that could mean absolutely nothing. They could already be too late.

"Dean?" Sam whispers from behind him. "What the hell's going on?" Dean doesn't have to turn around to know that Sam must also have his gun out, trained on whatever threat the other hunter has possibly sensed. There's comfort in that- that Sam still trusts Dean's instincts enough to go along with him.

"She's gone," Dean whispers back. Beside him, Ben's lip quivers in either anger or fear, Dean can't tell. Gun still raised, Dean reaches for his phone, dialing Lisa. He presses the phone to his ear and keeps moving, searching for any indication of a break-in. The phone rings and rings.

Approximately seven seconds after the call goes to voicemail, the front door opens. Sam, Dean, and Ben all straighten at the same time, as if their spines are all dependent upon the rotation of the door's hinges. Lisa walks through it, keys jangling from her hand, grocery bags slung over both arms. She pauses when she catches sight of the three men in front of her, all frozen; two of them still holding guns. She smiles wide when she sees Ben, immediately opening her arms. Ben walks into them, lets her wrap him into a long hug.

"Oh, Ben," she whispers into his hair. The plastic of the grocery bags swish when the embrace ends. Sam and Dean still haven't moved, though Sam has tucked his gun away. Dean's trembles a little at his side.

"Where the hell did you go?" he asks incredulously. Lisa's eyebrow twitches and she lifts the bags on her arms a little, as if to say _isn't it obvious, dummy_?

"Groceries," she answers. "Thought I'd beat you back here. Guess I was wrong." She walks into the kitchen, bags swinging at her hips. Dean stares after her, expression a mixture of rage and disbelief. After a brief pause, he stalks after her. Sam and Ben follow.

"Do...do you have _any_ idea how much danger you put yourself in?" Dean growls.

Lisa sets her groceries on the counter. "Dean, calm down," she says softly. "I'm fine. The grocery store isn't even a five-minute walk. Which is good, considering Sammy here commandeered my car for the day."

"I…" Sam sounds like he's about to apologize, but Dean doesn't let him.

"What part of 'monster after you' do you not understand?" he shouts. "I mean how…?"

"Stop," Lisa says, and it's almost a snarl. "Just stop." She looks at Ben, standing between the Winchesters with a face too old to belong to him. The jagged edge of her tone smooths out. "Ben, honey. I need you to go upstairs for a minute."

"Mom…" Ben starts, but it doesn't look like he has it in him to argue.

"Ben. Now," Lisa insists, and Ben goes. She waits, judging how long it will take Ben to walk up the stairs and make his way to his room. There's no real way to listen for his progress anymore, no telltale signs of a teenager stomping his feet or slamming the door behind him. It's easy to forget, sometimes, that Ben's not fully here. That he's dead. But judging by the sudden shift in everyone's expressions, Sam knows that in this particular moment, that fact has hit all three of them square in the face.

"Do you need me to leave, too?" Sam asks when the silence stretches too far. He's tired of feeling like an outsider, constantly trying to reassess his place in these countless, exhausting conversations.

Lisa shakes her head, surprising him. "You can stay," she says. She turns to Dean, face made of stone.

"I need to say something to you, and you're not going to interrupt, do you understand?"

Dean clenches his jaw, hard. He nods.

"Okay, here it is." She takes a breath: "You lost the right to have a say in our lives the day you left us behind in that hospital. I've been calm. This whole time, this whole...fucked up situation, I've kept it together. But you can't react like you and me are still...anything. Like you didn't choose to leave Ben and I behind. You chose Sam, and I understand that." She holds up a hand when it looks like Dean wants to cut in. "Really, I do. I know who you are, and I know what your brother means to you, and I accepted that the day he walked back through my front door. But now you're trying to relive the past and pretend you can come back, and you can't. You left and Ben _died_ and you can't change it or make it better, and sometimes I _wish_ for the monsters to come. Sometimes I'd like to be put out of my goddamn _misery_."

She squeezes the countertop behind her, letting it dig into her palms. "I felt it again, today. The grief. The overwhelming horror of losing him. And I don't want to go through it all over again. And I know it's coming. Inevitably. So yeah, I went grocery shopping. And if I hadn't come back, that would've been okay. At least I would've been with my son."

Dean can't talk. He just blinks at her, mouth slightly open and eyebrows pulled down and face pale like he's about to be sick, like her words are a poison he has to actively force out of every pore. Because this is the thing he had seen in her eyes the other day when he had asked her if she was worried about being left alone, added protection symbols or not. The truth of it had only graced her features for a moment, but it had been enough, and it is more than enough now.

Sam doesn't talk. He could if he wanted to, but he knows it's not his place. A selfish part of him wishes Lisa had made him leave, too. So he wouldn't have to be stuck in the middle of this shitstorm. He wonders, disturbed, if this is how Dean felt throughout their childhood- always shoved between him and their Dad, always searching for a way to make things right. Watching people flinging words at each other, unable to change a single thing. He aches for his brother. He aches for Lisa and for Ben and for the life he pushed his brother headlong into with his dying wish. He lets the guilt pour in, knows it's his fault that any of this is happening. But they hadn't _known_. They hadn't known what would come next. Sam was planning on an eternity in Hell. Sam was planning on a happily ever after for one of them, at least.

"You can talk now. If you want to," Lisa says, pulling Sam back into the room and his brother's stricken face. Dean opens his mouth.

"I…" he closes it again. Shakes his head and works his throat. "Sorry, I can't."

"You can't?" she sounds disappointed, as if after all this time playing peacemaker, staying on the rational side of things for the sake of her kid, she's ready for a real fight. Sam can't say that he blames her. He knows what it's like to have that kind of rage inside you. That kind of irrepressible grief pummeling against your ribs.

"There's nothing I can say," Dean continues, suddenly and deceptively placid. He knows grief, too. "I mean there's nothing. I know that. I know what that feels like…" Dean stops, blinks in Sam's direction and can't make it anywhere close to making real eye contact, but Sam sees enough to understand what his brother is thinking. What he's remembering.

Dean shrugs then, and Sam thinks he just might cry at the slant of his brother's shoulders, the look on his face. Sam knows Dean wants nothing more than to leave, to get as far away from the air in the room and the ugliness of loss that hangs in it, corrosive and nauseating. But he doesn't. He just stands there, waiting for more. Lisa must see it too, because her own shoulders slump. The fight goes out of her, and she sighs.

"I'm going to bed," she mutters. "Make yourselves at home."

She leaves the room, and then it's just Sam and Dean.

"Dean…" Sam starts to say.

"I'm gonna go for a drive," Dean interrupts.

"It's late," Sam answers stupidly. It's all he can think to say.

"Sure is," Dean says with something close to sarcasm. Sam barely recognizes it underneath all the other layers of emotion. He sighs.

"Okay. Just. Don't go too far. Ben might not be able to stay…"

"I know. I won't go far," Dean says, cutting him off again. "Just need...you know."

Sam nods. He knows.

The good news here is that Dean is prepared. And in this case, 'prepared', translates to 'full bottle of some kind of alcohol in the Impala.' He can't remember if it's Jimmy or Jose, and he honestly doesn't care. The drive will just be around the neighborhood, because he truly needs to be alone right now, and he doesn't feel like dragging Ben along against his will. Seems like too big of an ugly metaphor to contemplate at the moment.

Halfway to the car, Dean remembers he left his blade on Sam's bed. It feels strange not having it on him, but it would feel worse to have to go back into that house and face anyone right now, so he ignores the uneasiness. He's just driving around the goddamn neighborhood, and when the hell did he get so paranoid?

Except that's a stupid question he definitely knows the answer to.

He slides into the driver's seat like it's home (because it is, always will be) and shifts her into gear, nice and easy. Takes it slow for a while, just driving and turning, making small loops around the neighborhood, cutting back. When he's far enough away (but not nearly far enough away), he stops and reaches beneath the passenger seat for the bottle he knows will be there. It's Jose, and he'd prefer whiskey right now, but this'll do. Might even get him there a little quicker, which is just fine by him. He slides out of the Impala and contemplates sitting on the hood, but it feels like sacred ground he shouldn't be treading right now, so he just props himself on the grass beside her front wheel and leans back against her body, unscrewing the cap on the fifth in his hand and getting to work.

He drinks and he keeps drinking, and it's the first time he's really let himself since Purgatory. It starts to feel good after a while. That old, familiar heat in his stomach; artificial warmth against the cool night sky with its flickering stars and unanswered questions. He's not really spending much time looking at the sky tonight, though. For one thing, he's not interested in the questions, and for another, there's a very specific goal in mind here.

Namely, getting absolutely goddamn annihilated.

Dean understands it for the coping mechanism it is, and as much as Sam has tried to police his brother's methods over the years, Dean's always been pretty good at doing that himself. He has his rules, his regulations when it comes to getting smashed like this, the way he needs to every once in a while, and he sticks to them like religion.

Rule Number One: Get outta dodge.

Check.

Rule Number Two: No girls (besides Baby, obviously).

In hindsight, this one seems pretty obvious, but there was a time when Dean truly believed that an unhealthy amount of alcohol coupled with some company was the only way to chase certain things away. History has proven him wrong, and even if he'd found success, Dean's no longer inclined to drag other people into this kind of ritual (see Rule Number One).

Check.

And finally, Rule Number Three: Don't drive Baby once drinking has commenced.

He's planning on sleeping in the car or possibly in the grass tonight (because honestly, sitting here in the dirt is the most at home he's felt in a long time). So, check.

The bottle's a little more than halfway gone and he's definitely feeling it. Just letting himself drift and sway beneath the sky, light and airy and weightless and free. It's the most serene state of mind he's had in a long, long time, so it's only appropriate that the moment is broken not too long afterwards.

There are four of them, and they come out of the dark, and they are on him so fast, he barely has time to slam the bottle of tequila against the first one's face. But he does, and it barely has any effect.

"Christo!" Dean yells, simultaneously maneuvering himself against the car in a sloppy attempt to get vertical. He feels a stray piece of glass from the bottle slice across the palm of his hand, but he doesn't have time to dwell on it. He's too busy watching all four of the figures in front of him _flinch_.

Even halfway past hammered, Ruby's knife is in his hand in the next second. As it is, Dean thinks he does a pretty good job. Odd stacked against him, as always, and the whole time he's wondering how long these asshole demons were hanging out in the bushes, watching him slowly drink himself into a blackout. He'd practically done all the work _for_ them, and it pisses him off enough that he manages to take out two of the four. Not bad, considering.

The first one to meet Ruby's knife is the same one he'd wasted the rest of his perfectly good tequila on, so that's satisfying. He's managed to keep the Impala at his back so far, and the three remaining demons are having a hard time flanking him. He smiles, knife clenched in his fist.

"Who's next?" he glowers, and it sounds a lot cooler in his head, because in reality he knows he slurs the words a little.

Doesn't stop him from slicing the throat of the next demon that comes at him, staining her gray shirt crimson. She's barely slumped all the way at his feet before the two remaining demons fly at him. They're all unarmed, and Dean's pretty sure that's the only reason he's still alive right now. The thought panics him, because demons without weapons probably don't want him dead. And while that might soothe the minds of others, Dean knows there are things a lot worse than death, and he's not willing to explore any of them more thoroughly than he already has.

He knows it's over as soon as his head slams into Baby's side mirror, and the last conscious thought he has before someone pull his head back and slams it into something else is that he and Sam should invest in those cyanide pills the villains always have in the movies.

* * *

 **See y'all next week. Thanks for reading!**


	13. Chapter 13

**Happy Wednesday!**

 **~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ CHAPTER 13 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

In Purgatory, Dean always had a headache. In the same way his muscles had immediately become sore and his organs had rolled over on themselves, his head had been forever pounding out an insistent and aggravating rhythm. _You. Don't Belong. You. Don't. Belong,_ it seemed to taunt.

The headache Dean wakes up to is at least eighteen times worse, and sadly, Dean already knows why, because he's had one just like it on several occasions.

It's a glorious combination of alcohol consumption mixed with some solid blows to the head, and it's really making itself known, except this time the rhythm is more like: _Dean. Dean. DEAN! Wake up. WAKE UP!_

But he doesn't want to, dammit, because full consciousness will also mean facing whatever crappy situation he's found himself in this time, and Dean thinks he vaguely remembers enough to know it won't involve anything in the ballpark of something that'll make him happy.

" _DEAN!"_ Someone screams, and Dean realizes it's not just a pounding beat inside his head. It's Ben.

 _Shit_.

Dean flies the rest of the way awake, letting the pain flood in. It's coming from everywhere, and a lot of it becomes concentrated at his wrists when his arms swing involuntarily upon waking. Said wrists are chained to a pipe running just a few inches above a cement floor, arms pulled down so he can't even reach up past his hip without hitting resistance. There's a hastily wrapped bandage around his right hand, and Dean conjures up a half-formed memory of broken glass digging into his palm, but not much else.

The room is dark, barely enough light to see the glint of the chains. What little light there is originates from a window positioned high on the wall to his left, beams of sunlight cutting in through the branches of a small bush just outside. Dean pulls at the cuffs a few times, just on instinct, before letting them rest back on his lap. Notices that his boots are gone and so is his jacket, leaving him in socks, jeans, his flannel, and the t-shirt underneath. But these are all just small details. His first priority right now is Ben. The kid is kneeling right next to him on the grimy floor of wherever the hell they are, eyes wide and almost overflowing. He's hard to make out, too, and Dean's not sure how much of that is the darkness, and how much of it is Ben, fading away.

"Thank God," Ben gasps. As his eyes adjust a little, Dean realizes he should be able to feel Ben's hands where they rest on his shoulder. He can't. "Thank God you're awake. Dean, we gotta get out of here."

"Okay. Okay, calm down," Dean nods, trying to sound reassuring. He takes stock of the rest of the room. From what he can see in the gloom, it looks like someone's unfinished basement: mostly empty and damp with concrete floors. He's scrunched into the far left corner on the same side as the window, but the wall to his right looks like it's lined with tools. Dean can at least make out the shape of a shovel and something that looks like Death's scythe. Not the most comforting image, so he turns his attention straight ahead to a large, wooden table propped near the foot of the stairs. Behind the table is a matching chair. "You have any idea where _here_ is?"

"You wouldn't wake up," Ben says. He's still staring at Dean, panic etched into his face. "You couldn't feel me. Why can't you feel me?" Ben shakes Dean's shoulder viciously again. Nothing happens.

"Ben, I need you to calm down," Dean repeats, yanking uselessly at his cuffs again. He can't think right now, and he definitely can't think about _that_. All he manages to do is open up a few small cuts along his wrists. "Do you know anything about where we are or who took us…me?"

Ben shakes his head. He leans back on his heels, and Dean watches as he does his best to get even out his erratic breathing. "No, I'm sorry. No. I just...I was at home and then suddenly I was here. And you wouldn't wake up, Dean."

Dean nods his understanding. He's panicking a little bit, too, but it won't do either of them any good right now. "Alright, it's okay. I'm awake, alright? So now let's figure out our next move. What do you...?" Dean shuts up, listens to the shuffling of feet he can suddenly hear at the top of the stairs.

"Ben," he whispers, low and urgent. "Don't say a goddamn word, you understand me? You stay out of sight no matter what."

"Dean…"

"No matter _what_ ," Dean growls, holding Ben's eyes. After a moment, the kid gulps and nods his acceptance.

All they can do is wait, watching as a pair of spotless boots come slowly into view, the figure stopping at the foot of the stairs. Dean squints in the dark but can't make out the man's features until the figure reaches above his head and a light flicks on, flooding a small portion of the room in an ugly, yellow glow. And standing beneath the bulb, eyebrows pulled together in something that almost looks like concern, is Phillip Moorhead.

Dean closes his eyes, leans his head back against the cement wall at his back. "Well _shit_."

"Hi Dean," Phil says with a short nod, as if they're old acquaintances running into each other out of the blue. "Sorry for all the...ya know." He gestures to the chains, makes an absurd clicking noise with his tongue. "This isn't quite how it was supposed to go down."

"Look Phil, you're gonna have to catch me up here," Dean says, wiggling on his ass until he's sitting a little straighter, trying to fool both Phil and himself into thinking he's the one in control. He feels his wrists begin to ooze a bit more insistently at the motion, reminding him of the inaccuracy of that thought. "Because I gotta tell ya: I usually know why I've been abducted. And this time I'm just...yeah. I'm super lost, here."

Phil nods abruptly, tone far too light for the current situation. "Oh gosh," he says, almost comically. "Oh yes. You must have some questions." He pulls up the chair that sits behind the wooden table and takes a seat, legs of the chair settled just out of reach of Dean's toes. "I'm going to explain now, okay?" he asks.

It seems like he's waiting for an actual response, so Dean nods, a little dumbstruck. Phil smiles back, uneasy and almost sad. He seems simultaneously uncomfortable and resigned, a mix that sets Dean on edge. It's not customary for his captors to hold any hint of remorse. "This isn't one of those dumb, villain monologues, okay?" Phil insists, and Dean has to refrain from snorting. "I know you're not going anywhere."

"You seem pretty sure of that," Dean snarls, letting a little anger leak into his voice. "I'm not sure you understand who I am."

Phil grimaces, definitely apologetic now. "I do, though, Dean. I do. You're one of the famous Winchester brothers. You're the one who's been to Hell and back. I've known about you for a long time, but your story only began to matter to me after your resurrection."

Dean tries to bury his shock at Phil's words, does his best to school his features, wrists clanking against the unrelenting chains. He feels Ben turn to look at him but can't risk looking back. Can only guess at the expression the kid must be wearing at the revelation. Dean clears his throat. "Oh yeah? And why's that?"

Phil leans forward in his chair. "Well I should start with some basic facts here," he says. "First, I'm a psychic. It's a very specific gift. You see, I only have visions related to the supernatural. I'm still not quite sure how it works, can't always control it, but that's the gist."

Again, it seems as if Phil is waiting for a real response. Dean can't think of anything else to do. He gives him one. "Sure, great," he says, thinking of how he got here. "Starting to get a better picture. But see the thing is, Phil, you're in cahoots with demons. How's that come to be? You must know how bad that could get, being a psychic and all."

The words are meant to be almost threatening. An insult at the very least. But Phil just smiles, that sad, somber tilt of his lips. "Oh, I do," he nods. "You must understand, Dean, I'm not so very different from yourself. I made a deal, too."

"So it _was_ a deal," Dean accepts, re-adjusting his legs beneath him. His head still throbs insistently, but for now, he just keeps talking. Villain monologue or not, Dean needs information. "That rags to riches crap? You sold your soul for a full wallet. I did it to save my brother. I guarantee you, we're different."

Phil shakes his head, and the heaviness in his eyes scares Dean a little bit. "Dean, it's not so black and white," the man insists.

Dean stares back. "Enlighten me."

"Gladly," Phil answers. He takes a deep breath, as if preparing for a dive underwater. "Twelve years ago, someone hit my son, Jaden, with their car while he was biking to school one day. He was eight years old. Shattered bones, countless contusions and complications, concussion like you wouldn't believe. The bills just kept coming, expenses piling up. I needed a way out, and the tools were already in my hands. I'd been having visions since I was a child. I knew about demons, about deals. So I made one."

Dean shakes his head. "Couldn't have just wished him better? Why the money instead of the cure?"

"Because nothing is certain, Dean. You of all people must know that," Phil says, licking his lips. His stare seems to linger on the spot where Ben sits, invisible and silent throughout the conversation, just as Dean had asked. Uncomfortable, Dean shifts against the chains again, directing Phil's sad stare back to him. Phil bites his lip, keeps talking. "Of course I could wish my son healthy, but how long would that last?" he asks, fingers spread wide in agitation. "Accidents happen every day. Cars run red lights, idiots decide to drink and drive, and kids make wrong turns and break more bones. No. What I needed was a defensive strategy. A cushion to protect my family from whatever bad, ugly things might find them in the future. And in this world, that means money. So I got us a lot of it. Enough so that when I was gone, they would be able to face whatever waited for them."

"They must be so proud," Dean mocks. He's not sure it's in his interest to piss Phil off right now, but these are the tools and strategies he's always used, and they've worked out alright for him thus far. "Do they wanna come down and say hello?"

Phil looks genuinely angry for the first time. He still doesn't raise his voice, but his tone hardens. "I would never involve them in this. I sent them away for the weekend as an apology for my little hotel getaway."

"The getaway you took to get over your dead dog."

"Ahh, yes," Phil nods, a little amused now. The myriad of moods is giving Dean whiplash. "Pepper actually passed some time ago. Great Danes don't typically live more than nine years, Dean. And they don't generally point out stock market trends with their noses. But it seemed like you bought my crazy ramblings, huh?"

"Yeah well, you seem the type."

"I assure you, I'm perfectly sane. Just had some work to take care of outside of town."

"Huh," Dean snorts. "Okay, say I believe that, which is still up for debate. Here's a question: how are you still kicking? You made that deal twelve years ago. Far as I know it, demons don't go past ten. If you're lucky."

Phil smiles knowingly, looks like he's about to say something along the lines of 'I feel your pain' or 'next we'll move into child's pose' or some other bullshit.

"I'm sure you of all people understand what it's like to not be ready to let go, Dean," he says instead. "And that's exactly how I felt. Ten years with my family was wonderful, of course, but it wasn't enough. So I made another deal. My powers as a psychic gave me certain advantages, and I offered those advantages."

"Meaning what?" Dean asks. He's looking for loose nails in the floor, a sliver of something that might help him undo the cuffs once Phil leaves the room. There's nothing within reach.

"I help them find willing souls," Phil explains. Dean's stomach rolls as he continues. "I use my gift to find people's deepest desires, the things that cannot be attained without supernatural assistance. And then I send them to a crossroads."

Dean shakes his head in disgust. He ponders for a moment, chewing at the inside of his cheek. "A few days ago, you were outside the house. Lisa's house. Why?"

"Technically that wasn't me," Phil says, thrusting a finger in the air. "That was a demon. Not sure I could've outrun you, to be honest," Phil giggles a little at his own joke and Dean just stares at him.

"Why? Why go after Lisa? She'd never seek out a demon."

"You're right," Phil agrees, and Dean feels his shoulders relax slightly. He'd been sure of Lisa, of course, but the confirmation is comforting nonetheless. "I have another job. I keep track of you and your brother."

Dean looks at him questioningly, and Phil shrugs.

"The demons are very interested in you, and for good reason. You've made quite a few significant ripples." He raises his eyebrows. Dean feels Ben's eyes on him, still just watching. There are so many things Ben has never known about him, so many insight this conversation must be giving him. Phil keeps talking, that same, controlled tone. "And it happens that in a few days, there will be a supernatural auction. I've seen it. And you will be there, both you and your brother. You'll want something desperately, something the demons also want. The idea was…"

"Leverage," Dean realizes angrily. "You needed leverage against me."

Ben stiffens, and the temperature in the room drops by a few degrees.

"Yes Dean, that's right," Phil says, and he's back to being apologetic. It's almost worse that Dean can sense true remorse. It'll make it harder when he finally figures a way out of his chains and has to kill the guy. "I couldn't see that you'd show up in town so soon, even before we'd secured Ms. Braeden. Still trying to figure that part out," Phil continues, eyebrows scrunched together. "But the important thing is that we can cut out the middleman now. See, Dean, I've heard stories of you brothers. Had visions of the monsters you've killed for most of my life, caught flashes of Lisa and recognized her, obviously. Anyway, I figured you'd trade a heckuva lot to get her back. But I also know Sam would do the same for you. So this is good. I didn't really _want_ to involve an innocent woman, anyway. Especially not after what happened to her kid."

"Screw you, buddy," Dean growls, letting his eyes slide right over Ben, who remains stoic, almost calm. The expression on his face worries Dean.

"Look, I really am sorry, okay?" Phil says. Like he's sincerely seeking out forgiveness from the man chained to his basement floor. "You never set out to hurt people, you know? But this is for my family. Dean. What would you do for yours?"

Dean straightens up a little bit, makes sure he's caught Phil's eye before he answers, tone low and even. "If you've heard the stories, had your visions, then you already know the answer to that. Which means you have to know how bad this plan is. Walk away, man," he urges. He thinks back to Ben, joking about taking Phil down, just in case he turned out to be evil. It doesn't seem so funny anymore. "Don't stick around for your family at the expensive of losing your humanity. It's time to own up to the deal you made and do your time."

Phil leans back in his chair, running both hands over his balding scalp. "Not everyone is Dean Winchester, okay?" he says, exasperated. "No one's gonna pull me out of Hell. Once I'm in, I'm in for life."

Dean shakes his head. "I didn't go to Hell knowing I'd come back. I didn't _ask_ to be saved."

The hunter ignores Ben's new expression, doesn't really expect the level of pain reflected back at him as Ben slides one more puzzle piece into place about the man he only really knew from afar. Dean wonders, not for the first time, what the hell he'd been thinking when he'd gone to them. Broken, ruined, not even half alive. Standing on their doorstep, asking for what? For _what_? Infecting them with his history, darkening their lives with whatever might lie on his sunless horizon.

"But you _were_ saved," Phil continues. He stands up from the chair, pulling Dean away from his thoughts. "You were. And your family, they could've survived without you. Mine can't."

"I don't think you're giving them enough credit," Dean answers, trying to ignore the sting of what he knows to be true, has always known to be true, even long before the Yellow Eyed Demon, possessing his father's body, had uttered those same words.

Phil takes a few steps backward until the light at the top of the stairs catches his face, shadows cutting across his features, making it hard to read his expression.

"I'm sorry. I really am," he apologizes again. He moves for the stairs, pivoting and latching onto the banister.

Dread pools at the base of Dean's throat as he thinks of being left in this basement for days on end. He thinks of Sam's panic, of Ben fading away in front of his eyes. "Phil, don't do this," he pleads, the way he never does. He can reach Phil, he knows he can. This doesn't have to end the way it always does. Because even if it takes a few days, Dean knows Sam will find him. Dean knows in the end, there will be a body on the floor and a family left without answers. And he knows it's probably irrational to hope that his captor will have a change of heart, but he also knows it's the only way to save Phil's life. And despite his earlier thoughts, Dean doesn't really want to add another human to his hit list. "Come on. You're better than this," he tries.

Phil shakes his head sadly, toes curling over the first step. "I'm not, actually."

He flicks the light off on his way up the stairs, leaving Dean to struggle against his cuffs in the dark.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading!**


	14. Chapter 14

**Today's chapter is late and that is partly because I've been running around today and partly because I don't like it. But alas, the deadline is here (well...technically it was probably a few hours ago, but whatever) so here we are. Bear with me, we're getting to the good stuff! (I should be in advertising, with that pitch, don't you think?)**

 **~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ CHAPTER 14**

Sam smells tequila around the same time he sees the Impala.

He'd awoken with a pit in his stomach and the knowledge that something was wrong. Dean's absence from the couch had been his first indicator, though with the way his brother had left, Sam knew it was possible he'd spent the night in the car. Which hadn't been directly outside the house, as Sam would've guessed it to be. He'd borrowed Lisa's Santa Fe again (this time without asking- she'd still been asleep when he'd awoken), cutting a few smooth loops around several streets before he'd caught sight of the familiar, sleek frame of the Impala and smelled the sweet stink of alcohol.

He approaches the car warily, gun at his side, somehow already knowing it's empty. There's a shape in the grass beside the back wheel on the side furthest from him, and Sam's stomach drops a moment later when he realizes it's a boot.

"Dean?" he whispers, but the name barely makes it past his lips before he's close enough to see that it's not his brother's foot. And that whoever that foot belongs to is dead. Inhaling sharply, Sam raises his gun the rest of the way and kicks experimentally at the body- the man on the ground is well past reacting, and Sam's attention has already shifted to a second body, this one a woman with her throat slashed. He finds the source of the tequila smell, remaining pieces of glass littering the ground, and by the time he's made a full circle around the car, he's fully panicking.

Dean's definitely gone. And it's looking like demons.

And there's blood that doesn't belong to either of the bodies on the ground.

Sam feels like a traitor, leaving his brother's Baby on the side of the road, but the Santa Fe is bigger and it's easier to get the bodies into the trunk. He finds a drop-sheet from the Impala and quickly cleans up what he can, rolling the dead demons into Lisa's car and speeding back to her house. Finding Dean is obviously priority one, but Sam knows there are steps that come first. Telling Lisa that Dean's missing is next on the list, followed by a quick corpse disposal. As terrible as it is, Lisa knows the area, and she'll probably have an idea for a good place to drop them.

But Lisa is in no position to answer any questions when Sam pulls back into the garage and makes his way into the house. She's pacing the halls screaming Ben's name, breathing hard but not yet crying, though she's close to it.

"Sam!" she rushes for him the moment he walks in the door, gripping at his t-shirt. "Sam, where is he? Where's Ben?" she demands.

"Lisa, listen to me," Sam coaxes, holding his hands up in surrender. "Dean's gone. He's been taken. Which means that Ben is probably with him."

Lisa shakes her head, releasing Sam from her hold and taking a step back. "What?" she asks, voice too high. "Where? Where are they?"

"I don't know," Sam answers, trying to keep the fear from his own voice. He wants to skip this part, wants to get right to the moment where they find Dean and he winks at Sam and Lisa and says something stupid like 'took you long enough' and then they all go back to Lisa's house and have a few beers and everything is okay again. But right now, that part is a long way off, and there is a tiny voice niggling at the back of Sam's head that's whispering about a different ending, one that doesn't involve anything but pain.

"I found Dean's car and a couple bodies…uh demons…a few streets over," Sam continues, holding her eyes. "We'll figure it out. But first, I need a place to dump the bodies."

Lisa blinks. "Dump the…? Are you serious?"

"Unfortunately."

"Jesus. Okay. Okay. I need to put my shoes on. I need to just…"

"It's okay. Just take a minute, get yourself ready to go. I'm gonna run back and grab the Impala. Stay calm Lisa. We'll find them. I promise." It's stupid to promise anything, but Sam's not just saying it for her benefit. Failure is not an option when it comes to Dean. This time, Sam is coming for his brother. This time, Sam will find him.

* * *

"The bodies are _where_?" Lisa shrieks.

They're standing half in, half out of the garage, Sam with both sets of car keys dangling from his fingertips. He bites his lip apologetically. "I didn't know what else to do," he shrugs.

Lisa looks lethal, and despite the current situation, Sam still finds a bit of humor in her bewildered, furious expression. She's staring at the trunk of her car as though it's been painted with polka dots, and Sam can't help but think of Dean's overprotectiveness of his own car. Sam watches with fascination as Lisa breathes a deep sigh, filling her cheeks and letting it out in a giant gust of air. She straightens a little, turning her attention back to Sam.

"There's a small stretch of forest a few miles away on Wingim Street. I drive by it on my way to work. Would that be a good spot?"

Sam forgets to answer for a moment, caught up in the stoic way Lisa stands and the glint of frantic intent in her eyes. She inclines her head toward him questioningly, waiting for an answer.

"That'll work," Sam confirms. He lets her take the wheel, sliding into the passenger seat of her car, weapons bag and two shovels flung into the backseat. Yet again, Sam knows Dean would kill him for leaving the Impala behind (this time tucked safely in Lisa's garage, at least), and he himself feels strangely about riding in the dark blue SUV, but there's no time and Lisa's car will be far less conspicuous.

There isn't much traffic this early in the morning, and they're able to shift the bodies from Lisa's trunk into the woods without much difficulty. The graves they dig are shallow and sloppy, but Sam doesn't care and Lisa doesn't know enough about dumping dead bodies to have an opinion. They finish quickly and slide back into the Santa Fe, dirt smearing the light leather seats. Lisa doesn't seem to notice, too busy gnawing at her thumbnail as they drive back to the house. All Sam wants to do is pick a direction and start searching, but he knows it's the wrong move. They need clues. Facts. An idea of who took Dean. They need a plan.

"How do you know he's not dead?" Lisa asks suddenly, hands wrapped around the wheel, fingers tapping nervously. They're stopped at a red light. The radio is off and the early morning air is just beginning to buzz with the indistinct energy of other people beginning to awaken. Sam glances at the clock: 8:47am.

It's Sunday, Sam realizes belatedly. He can't remember the last time he wasted a thought on the day of the week.

"He's not dead," Sam says. He doesn't look at her, instead watching as the light turns green. Lisa drives.

"How do you know?"

"If they wanted Dean dead, they'd had to have killed him on the spot," Sam reasons. The thought fills him with both pride and fear. Dean's always been an all or nothing kind of guy. "And there's not nearly enough blood at the car for him to be dead. Which means they took him. Which means he's alive."

Lisa bites her lip and nods, seeming to accept that. "Okay, so how do we find him?"

They're pulling back into the driveway now. "I'm guessing that whatever took him is the same thing that was after you. So we figure out what it is. Just...we move faster. A lot faster." Sam climbs out of the car, making his way to the front door. Lisa follows after, locking it behind her. "I gotta look at my notes," Sam says over his shoulder. He finds his laptop on the bed in the guestroom and walks it into the kitchen, taking a seat at the table and opening the computer. Lisa follows after again, pacing the space in front of him.

"What can I do?" she asks. "How can I help?"

Sam glances up from his screen. "You've already helped," he says. "You're doing good."

"Yeah, _so_ good," Lisa grumbles, running her fingers through her hair. "My kid is missing, Dean is missing, and we just buried two stranger's bodies in a goddamn field not too far from my house. So. Good."

Sam wishes he could spare more sympathy for Lisa, but at the moment he can't afford it. There's too much at stake to take her feelings into account. Maybe that's insensitive of him, but he doesn't care.

"Look, wherever they are, they're together," he reasons, trying to at least set her mind at ease, if only slightly. "That's good news. Whoever's got Dean, Ben will be able to help him escape. It's possible they'll come stumbling through that door before we even have to figure out where they are."

Sam nods in the general direction of the front door, but his eyes are fixed on the screen in front of him, pulling up what little information he'd been able to find about anything strange happening in Lisa's town. As much as he'd like to believe his own words, he can't. Dean doesn't get 'got' unless the adversary is formidable, whether or not tequila is involved in the equation. And that probably means there's no easy escape from whoever snatched him. Behind him, Sam can hear Lisa's apprehensive pacing. He doesn't turn away from his research to look at her, but his tone leaves no room for doubt.

"And even if they don't, we _will_ figure out where they are," he insists. "We will."

* * *

 **Until Wednesday!**


	15. Chapter 15

**So I could apologize yet again for being late or I could just shut up and let you read. It's a longer chapter, so hopefully that'll make up for it.**

 **~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ CHAPTER 15**

"Come on, try it again," Dean urges for what seems like the hundredth time. And just like all the other times before, Ben's hand passes straight through the chair Phil had been sitting in.

"I...I can't," Ben growls, frustrated.

Dean feels his own frustration gnawing at his ribs, unable to keep it from his voice. "Ben, you held onto a pen for like six hours the other day while we were playing that dumb game. How can you not…?"

"I don't _know_ ," Ben screams. "Maybe because all of my energy lately has been focused on not freaking out and going full _psycho_ -ghost on you, and now I'm just too damn _tired_."

Dean shifts against his handcuffs, feeling the slipperiness of his own blood against his fingers. The small amount of daylight that had been filtering in through the basement's single window is fading into sunset, casting a thin, orange glow along the floor near Dean's feet. "It's really that bad?" Dean asks worriedly.

Ben sighs, letting his useless hands drop away from the chair. "I'm scared, Dean. I mean there's so much inside me right now. I don't know how much longer I can do this."

"Alright," Dean reassures. "It's okay. You can hold on. We'll figure it out."

Ben takes a small step towards Dean, his face scrunching in distaste. "You don't know that," he points out.

"We will, Ben," Dean insists. "I just need you to pull it together. You gotta be strong."

The moment the words have left his mouth is the moment Dean knows he's made a mistake. An echo of memory floats up inside the space between the hunter and the ghost- another dark basement from years ago. Lisa lying bloody on the floor, and Dean spewing out those same words to a dumbstruck Ben, urging him to grab the shotgun from the duffle bag at his feet. Ben cocks his head to the side a bit, like he's listening for something. Dean wishes for his jacket as the sudden chill of Ben's emotion makes itself known in the air.

"Damn you, Dean," the kid snarls as he inches closer to where Dean sits. "You talk such a big game. You pretend you know it all. But you don't. You don't know anything. You just spew out the same words over and over again, and you don't even know if they're true. You guys could all be dead by tomorrow."

"Ben. I would never let that happen," Dean persists, but his answer only serves to drive the temperature down by a few more degrees.

"But you did, Dean. You _did_ let it happen. You left and now I'm _dead_ ," says Ben. His tone is low, pestilent. "I'm dead," he repeats, as if he can't believe it, and Dean lets out a surprised yelp when he feels his back connect with the wall behind him, the uneven edge of it digging into his spine. Ben is glaring at him, and Dean searches for the right words this time, even as he feels his chest constrict with the intensity of Ben's hold on him.

"Ben, I'm sorry. You'll never know how sorry. But right now, I need you to do better than I could. I need you to find a way to center yourself. Find a way to save _yourself_ this time, and don't become something you can't come back from."

"And why the hell not?" Ben counters. Beside him, the table and chair begin to shake. " At least when I'm angry, I can move things. Next time Phil Asshead comes down here, I can whip that table at him."

"Ben, no," Dean gasps. "It's not worth it."

"Oh don't go playing the martyr," Ben says, rolling his eyes. But Dean feels some of the air coming back to his lungs, a little of the tightness gone from his chest. Ben is losing steam, and Dean doesn't know whether to be grateful or worried by that fact.

"Ben, think about your mom," Dean urges, hoping that the decreased pressure is due to Ben seeing reason. "Think about how she'd feel if you go crazy before she gets the chance to say goodbye."

The table stops shaking. The chair wobbles one more time on its legs and then sits still. At first, Dean thinks it's because he's gotten through to Ben, but a moment later he hears footsteps on the stairs. Phil enters the doorway, flicking the light on, a knowing smile plastered on his face. It makes Dean uneasy, but he just stares back at Phil, trying his best to look utterly unimpressed.

"Talking to yourself down here, Dean?" Phil asks, peeking around the dark corners of the basement conspiratorially, as if playing hide and seek with a child still in plain sight.

Dean shrugs, deceptively casual. "Yeah, well. Not much else to do, seeing as it's not looking like you're gonna let me go anytime soon."

"It took me a second," Phil says, as if Dean hasn't spoken. He walks a little further into the room, and Dean watches Ben take an automatic step back. The boy's face is still filled with rage, but it is more controlled now, focused on the real enemy in front of them. Dean half expects to see the table fling itself across the room as Ben had been threatening to do just a few moments ago, but Ben seems to sense the same underlying tension that Dean does, and the room stays still. Phil continues speaking, voice soft and sticky like overworked dough. "You know, I've never fully perfected my visions. The demons I work for hate it, because sometimes it takes me a long time to figure out what will get people to a crossroads. And I was thinking..." Phil pauses, puts a finger to his chin like some cheap imitation of a Disney villain. "I was thinking: How did the Winchesters know Lisa was in danger? It's almost like you had another psychic working for you. Or a ghost." Phil smiles. "Hello, Benjamin."

The silence breaks on Phil's last, damning word, a thundering shriek of wood as Ben flings the chair across the floor of the basement and straight at Phil. The psychic dodges it easily, already whipping a container of salt from the pocket of his jacket and flinging it in Ben's direction. Dean is helpless to do anything but watch as the room comes alive around him, tools and light-bulbs and any other objects Ben can dig up whipping low around their heads, somehow always missing Dean by a few inches. Phil is dipping and dodging with a surprising level of grace, twisting nimbly away from a buzz saw as it cuts through the air right next to his ear. He whips the salt out again, this time catching Dean in the crossfire. The hunter flinches away from the kernels that land near his face. Ben attempts to do the same, but a few of the grains make contact, and Dean opens his eyes in time to watch as Ben's anger quite literally shakes every inch of his pale frame. Dean knows the exact moment that Ben becomes visible to Phil, because Phil's eyes immediately move to him and he smiles big and wide, like a twisted kid who's just pulled the wings off his first fly and is already figuring out how to catch another one.

"Ben, no!" Dean screams, but he's already too late. Ben rushes at Phil, who drops a thick, unbroken line of salt right in front of him. Each move Ben makes after that is met with another calculated movement from Phil until he has successfully imprisoned Ben within a small box of salt. Ben seethes, furious, the bloodless veins in his neck standing at attention, pumping nothing, even as he screams expletives that would almost make Dean himself blush if he weren't already terrified by the look on the kid's face. It reminds him of Sam right before he'd thrown his big brother through a wall in a Cold Spring hotel suite. Reminds him of himself, surrounded in a land full of monsters and an angel who wasn't coming to save him.

Phil is breathing hard, the salt canister bobbing a little in his trembling fingers as he slowly regains his composure. He swipes at a trickle of blood falling from his lip where something Ben threw actually caught him a bit. Dean doesn't even know what it was that got him, but he's disappointed it didn't do more damage. By the look on Ben's face, so is he. The kid looks exhausted, all of the energy drained out of him. He sits slumped within his circle of salt, chest heaving with breaths he no longer needs to take.

"Let him go, Phil," Dean warns, though there's no true threat behind the words, and Phil knows it. He runs his hands through his thinning hair, smoothing it back.

"You'll have time now. To talk," Phil says, placing the salt canister on the table. He looks sullen, like this really wasn't his idea. Like it's all gotten too far out of hand and there's nothing he can do now but ride whatever comes, become whatever he needs to in order to keep himself breathing. Dean wishes the look wasn't so familiar. It sucks the anger from him, instead fills his chest with a hopeless weight. "I can sense that there's a lot you need to say to each other, and maybe now it can be said," Phil continues. "I truly hope that you can sort things out before the auction. Come to terms with everything."

Ben rolls his eyes, but doesn't say anything.

"Can _you_ , Phil?" Dean asks, trying one more time to use the only cards he has left in the deck. "Can you come to terms with what you're doing?"

Phil huffs out a sigh, blinking slowly down at his captives. He pauses for a long time, and Dean waits him out.

"I thought about telling my wife, once. What I've done for them," the psychic drawls. He looks off into the space behind Dean's head at something far away and not there. "What I've done to stay alive. But I think it's something I need to keep to myself. It's a burden I have to shoulder, to keep them clean, you know? To make sure they don't get dragged into the darkness. We must do that, for the people we love. We must keep our secrets, and we must sometimes travel the darker roads so that they can take the ones bathed in light. Do you understand what I mean, Dean?"

"I understand that if you leave us down here, there's no going back," the hunter answers. "You'll cross that line for good. You've been working with demons, selling other people's lives for your own. Don't you think you've done enough?"

Phil nods like he agrees. "So then, you _do_ understand," he says, as though Dean has learned an important lesson. "You've done much the same, wouldn't you say? Deals with demons. Deals with Death himself. You even partnered with the King of Hell for a moment there, didn't you? Helped him gather up a little zoo of monsters. Not quite covered in light yourself, Dean Winchester."

Dean blinks. "Never said I was."

Phil shakes his head remorsefully and reaches slowly into his pocket again, this time pulling out Dean's cell phone.

"What are you doing?" Dean asks, instantly wary.

"Calling your brother."

"Now?" Dean asks, confused. "Don't you have to wait for this stupid auction? Showing your hand kinda early there, McDermott."

"Look, I feel bad, alright?" Phil admits, exasperated. "I know you guys care about each other. I've got a sister I'm very close to. If she ever went missing, I don't know what I'd do." He wiggles the phone in Dean's direction, unlocking it with ease and scrolling through the short contact list. "I'd just like to calm his nerves a bit."

Dean snorts. "Lemme get this straight. You're gonna calm my brother's nerves by making a call from my cell phone that I've been kidnapped? I'm not sure you've thought this through."

"Believe me, Dean, I have," Phil assures. He finds Sam's name on the list and hesitates for a moment, letting the screen go dark. Dean looks at him questioningly, but Phil turns away from him, suddenly searching for something. He speaks over his shoulder while rustling through a container in the corner of the room that Dean can't get a clear view of. "The beauty of being a psychic is that it's easier to think things through when you know the end result."

Dean pales a little at that. He's afraid of what Phil hasn't said with those words. Again, he pictures himself trapped here for days, bloodying his wrists and slowly watching Ben lose himself inside his tiny prison of salt. The image of Ben, in particular, terrifies him most, gets him back to yanking against the handcuffs and the pipe that holds him. He lashes out when Phil finds what he's looking for, coming towards him with a roll of duct tape. Dean's ankles scrape loudly against the floor, but Phil dodges the kick, securing the tape around Dean's mouth and stepping away quickly, missing another swipe of Dean's legs.

"Sorry, Dean," the man explains. "I feel like you might've picked up my address from those files you have on me. Best Sam doesn't know who I am or where we are quite yet."

Dean doesn't mean to do it, but his gaze shifts over to Ben for one, tiny moment. Phil watches the movement and bonks himself on the head with an air of self-mockery. "Oh wow. That would've been stupid of me."

Phil disappears into that same darkened corner again, this time returning with the iron shovel Dean had noticed earlier when there had been more light in the room. And then, without a second thought, the psychic lunges forward and drives the shovel straight through Ben's chest. Ben shrieks and disappears instantly, and Dean screams his rage through the tape, mangling his wrists even further with the full-body outburst Phil's attack sparks from him.

He freezes a moment later when he hears the sound of an outgoing call's first ring. The jackass put it on speaker.

"Dean?" comes Sam's voice only halfway through the second ring, breathy and relieved. Dean squeezes his eyes shut against the emotion seeping through the phone.

Phil purses his lips. "No Sam, I'm sorry. But I'd like to let you kno…."

"Who the hell is this?" Sam cuts in, cold and brutal and deadly.

"I am not willing to disclose that information quite yet," Phil answers. The phone is in his left hand, the shovel in his right; the blade of it scraping along the floor as he sways slightly on his feet, like there's a slow song playing and the shovel is his dance partner. He seems slightly shaken by Sam's quick change of tone, and Dean can't help the swell of pride growing in his chest. "But I would like to inform you that your brother is safe. I will meet you in a few days time, and we will make an exchange then."

Dean almost laughs. Phil has no idea the mistake he's made in calling, though Sam's answer maybe gives him a small clue.

"You're dead, you son of a bitch," Dean's baby brother snarls. Dean can picture the look on his face, the curl of his lip and the faraway stare as he no doubt pulls the phone closer to his mouth. "You understand me? Because it won't _take_ me a few days to find you, and when I do, you'll be a doornail before you even know I'm in the same room."

Phil fiddles nervously with the shovel, tapping his nails against the handle. "Look, this is simply a courtesy call…" Phil tries, only to be interrupted again.

"Courtesy, huh?" Sam says. "And where's my proof that Dean's even still alive?"

Phil cocks his head to the side for a long moment, gaze shifting to some far-off point, gone from the room. And then he nods. "Very well," he says, flipping the shovel around in his hand. Dean watches Phil advance on him and does his best to brace himself from the blow he knows must be coming. But instead, at that very moment, Ben reappears between them. Swiftly, without blinking, Phil swings the shovel into the kid's shoulder blades, making him disintegrate again. And again, Dean screams against the tape. Phil lowers the phone so that Sam can hear it, straightening back up a moment later.

"I'm really sorry, but that's the best I can do for now. I promise you'll see your brother again. Sorry, Sam." The line clicks, but not before Sam manages to fire off a few more ugly words. Dean is still seething, breathing hard and pulling against his cuffs.

"Now come on Dean," Phil lectures. "I know you care for Lisa's son, but you must understand that he's already dead. I'm not hurting him, not really."

Dean sputters out a few of his own choice words that Phil can't understand through the gag, trying to convey with his eyes just how deep his hatred now runs. But Phil doesn't seem particularly threatened. Instead, it again seems as though he has again gone somewhere else inside his own head for a moment. When awareness returns to his clouded eyes, he takes several steps away from Dean and begins making another salt circle. As Phil turns to leave, Ben reappears inside the newest circle. Dean's attention shifts automatically away from the retreating psychic and back to the young ghost. He lifts his bound hands in Ben's direction, trying to reach over the distance between them, asking a silent question through the tape secured over his mouth.

"I'm okay, Dean," Ben says, answering it, but he collapses onto his knees within the circle, letting out an exhausted breath. He looks gaunt and really, really dead, and Dean turns to rub his nose against his shoulder so he doesn't have to look at Ben looking like that. He pulls weakly at the cuffs again, trying to reach the tape around his mouth and not even coming close. After a while he gives up, shooting a loaded glance in Ben's direction.

"Well. Shit," says Ben. They stare at each other from across the room and say more than they've said to each other in a long time, all without opening their mouths.

* * *

 **NOTE: Dean calling Phil 'McDermott' is in reference to Matt Damon's character in the Poker movie** _ **Rounders**_ **. YAY REFERENCES.**


	16. Chapter 16

**Wouldja look at that? I'm on time today!**

 **~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ CHAPTER 16**

Sam is fuming. Practically foaming at the mouth, and he knows he's probably freaking Lisa the hell out, but he also doesn't really care at this point. Someone has his brother. Someone has Dean.

"So he's alive?" Lisa asks, relief evident in her voice. They're standing in her kitchen, laptop and miscellaneous research spread out over the table and overflowing to the counter. They'd been at it for a few hours before the call had come in, presumably from Dean. Sam had jumped up from his chair to answer it, and Lisa had followed suit. Sam places the phone back down on the table, rubbing a hand over his mouth.

"Yeah, for now," he answers. "Says he'll meet me in a few days to make an exchange."

"An exchange for what?"

"No idea," Sam admits.

"Okay, so what do we do now?"

"Same as before," Sam says, beginning to regain some control. He's never been good at keeping a clear mind when Dean's in danger, and it's never helped him. He needs to focus. He takes a long, slow breath. "We keep digging. We figure out who took him."

* * *

It takes another two hours, and Lisa's the one who finds it.

"Hey Sam?" They're sitting across from each other at the kitchen table, their laptops lined up like Battleship boards, back to back.

"Yeah?" Sam is only half listening. He's rereading all the information he'd been able to dig up on Sandy Crippens, the woman they'd spoken to at the bar.

"Didn't you say crossroads deals only last ten years? And then you go to Hell?" Lisa is clicking through something on her laptop, typing furiously.

"Yeah," Sam repeats, giving her a little bit more of his attention. She sounds like she's piecing something together. Something important.

Lisa nods to herself, staring at her screen. "Okay," she continues. "So how is Phil Moorhead still alive?"

Sam is back to half-listening. He turns back to the file in front of him as he talks. "Had us confused too," he says. "According to him, it wasn't a crossroads deal. It was his dog. Pepper."

The silence stretches longer than it should, so Sam finally looks up to find Lisa staring at him over both computers, eyebrows raised in confusion. "Is that supposed to make sense to me?"

Sam snorts. "Basically Phil just stumbled into the stock market like an idiot and got lucky."

"Got lucky, huh?" Lisa says, her disbelief made clear. "Sam, the guy never made a wrong move. From everything I'm reading about, he didn't miscalculate a single market fluctuation. I mean, magic dog or not, that's unbelievable. That's not natural."

Sam comes around to her side of the table, leaning over for a closer look at what she's reading. It's an article about Phil. The more he reads, the wider his eyes get. "Wow. Okay, that's weird," he concedes. "But I mean, even if you're right and it was a deal, it still doesn't explain how he'd be alive twelve years after he started making money. Demons don't give out extensions."

"Not even if this Phil guy had something else to offer them?" Lisa asks.

"Like what?"

Lisa flicks her wrist out in annoyance. "I don't know, Sam. This isn't really my gig. I'm just saying, that's how business usually works. You stick with a person for as long as they can help you make a profit. So what do demons profit from?"

"Destruction. World domination," Sam lists. Then pauses. "Souls, technically."

"Okay, so those are the deals, right? How do they work, exactly?" Lisa asks.

"People trade their souls for the things they want," Sam explains. He begins to pace, trying not to let his mind wander to where Dean might be at this exact moment, how deep into trouble he could have landed himself. "You meet at a literal crossroads and it's like a business deal, essentially."

"Okay," Lisa blinks, processing. She's typing on her laptop again. "So maybe Phil's a really good salesman, then."

"It's usually the demons doing the selling," Sam contests, but there's something beginning to tickle at the back of his brain.

"What kind of dog did he have?" Lisa asks after a moment.

"Huh?"

"The magic dog, what breed was it?"

Sam shrugs. "Uh, Great Dane, I think."

Lisa spins the laptop towards him, and Sam stops his pacing to look at the screen. " _This_ Great Dane?"

A collage of several photos of the same dog Sam had seen on Phil's phone greet him on the screen, and he nods.

"But this is a Facebook post from six years ago," Lisa says, cocking her head to the side.

"And?" Sam prompts.

"And, read the caption," Lisa urges, bringing his attention back to the picture.

Sam reads the words below it: _It is with great sadness that we say goodbye to our beautiful Pepper. He filled our lives with a joy and a playfulness that we will forever be grateful for. Rest in Peace._

"Six years ago, you said?" Sam confirms, and Lisa nods. "He said Pepper passed four days ago. Why would he lie?"

"As the mom of a teenager, I can tell you with absolute certainty that it's because he's hiding something," Lisa replies, spinning the computer back to herself. She squints at it one more time before raising her eyebrows at Sam.

"It's all pretty thin, but seeing as it's the only lead we have, I'll take it." Sam straightens up, reaching for his coat where it hangs on the kitchen chair. Lisa reaches for her own jacket.

"I'm gonna make a quick call to the the Hemlock Hotel," Sam says. "See if Phil is still staying there. Pack anything you need in the car." He tosses her the Impala's keys from his coat pocket.

A few minutes later they're in the Impala, speeding to the place Sam prays he'll find his brother. According to the concierge at the Hemlock, Phil Moorhead had checked out of the hotel. Sam had managed to get a home address with one more phone call and some fake credentials. Sam's running through scenarios in his head, wondering if he'd benefit from having Lisa as backup or if he'll have to cuff her to the steering wheel before he goes in. A thought occurs to him then, and he glances over at her. She's staring out the passenger side window, peeling nervously at her nails.

"I have to show you how to load a gun," he says.

Lisa turns toward him. "Already know how."

Sam tilts his head at her, eyebrows raised. Lisa's lip twitches a little in something like mirth. She stops picking at her nails.

"I was surprised too, when I figured it out."

Sam's even more intrigued now. "How _did_ you figure it out?"

"Guy I was seeing took me on a date to a gun range," she explains, grin widening as she gets caught up a little in the memory. "I think he wanted to impress me with his aim." She snorts. "I still have my target hanging in the house. Almost all bulls-eyes. He never called again…."

Sam chuffs in impressed amusement. "So Dean must've taught you then," he concludes. He looks at her seriously then, eyes growing earnest.

"I'm sorry for what happened to you. For losing your memories and not having any say in it."

Lisa nods, meeting his stare head on. "Thank you, Sam. That's good of you to say."

"I mean it," Sam insists. "Memories are everything, especially to Dean and me. We don't get to take anything else with us, you know? So he, of all people, should've known better."

Sam's not really sure why he's pushing this. He doesn't mean to rag on his brother, and he knows Dean's been through a lot. In a way, these are the words he's always wanted to say to Dean, but never would.

"Has anything like that ever happened to you?" Lisa asks suddenly.

Sam thinks of all the things he could say, all the ways he feels connected to her now. Dean has always made decisions for him. Sam can see the necessity in that most of the time, but other times he's found it hard to forgive Dean's strategies, the things he's risked and the things they've both lost because of those decisions. And part of Sam knows that it's unfair to place the blame on Dean's shoulders. They've faced impossible choices with no good outcomes for years on end. But still, if Sam feels for it, he can find a pool of resentment glistening inside his gut. He shakes his head at her question.

"Not like that, no. But this life…." he pauses. "I feel like I've lost certain parts of myself, too."

"Monsters sucking out your soul? All that?" Lisa asks, half-joking. Sam blinks at her in surprise.

"That's actually...you're more on the nose than you know," he says. "Sometimes that's how it happens- it's the monsters that take those pieces. And sometimes it's just...it's just you. It's just what you have to become in order to survive."

"Sounds like you're talking about Dean, now."

Sam scrunches his forehead in acknowledgement. "I'm talking about both of us, I guess. I never agreed with what Dean did, letting Cas take your memories. I still don't," he emphasizes. "But recently, I think I've at least begun to understand why he did it. How desperately he wanted to keep you safe." Sam eases the Impala left at the next streetlight. They're not far now. "Not only that, on another level, I think he wanted to let you skip over the heartbreak of it all, you know? Again, not saying it was right. I just…" Sam sighs. "I think I get it. When you love someone, you don't want to make them say goodbye. You don't want them to have to live without you, because you know how it feels to live without _them_."

Lisa hums out what might be an assent. "Sounds like you're back to talking about you again," she says.

"Doesn't matter," Sam says. "Doesn't make a difference who I'm talking about."

Because Sam has always known that the strings of their lives are forever intertwined, has shared his brother's pain and joy and all of the little, boring, crazy, horrible, wonderful moments in between, and he has to bring Dean back now. He has to find him and bring him home the way he couldn't when it was Dick Roman and black slime all over the walls and no one left but him. And Dean, trapped and alone within the oozing underbelly of Purgatory. Without him.

Sam steps on the gas.

* * *

 **Getting down to the nitty gritty. See you next week and thank you so much for your thoughts/comments!**


	17. Chapter 17

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ CHAPTER 17 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean is listening to the floorboards creak overhead. He'd finally managed to scrape the tape off his mouth using his shoulder. His lips are cracked and raw, and he hasn't spoken to Ben much. He's too busy listening. Because it's more than just Phil shuffling above them now. Dean had heard the front door creak open a little while ago, and there are a few extra pairs of footsteps shifting over the tile now, which means that if...when they escape, they'll have some demons to kill. Dean's looking forward to it. He's still wondering about Phil, though. If there's a way the psychic will survive this. Given what Phil's just done, Dean finds it surprising, how much he still half-thinks they can find a way to neutralize Phil without offing him.

Sam was psychic too, once.

And Phil's bad news, that much is obvious. But he's not an outright monster, and this isn't Purgatory, as Dean has constantly had to remind himself. The rules are different here (starting with the fact that there _are_ rules), and Dean's doing his best to abide by them. He glances over at Ben, who is sitting slumped within the salt circle, his back to Dean, spine curved over his knees as he stares fixedly at his gym shoes. The kid had run himself completely ragged in the last however long it's been (Dean had purposefully stopped keeping track of time in Purgatory, and it's a skill he's yet to rediscover) trying to somehow zap his way back to Lisa and Sam to warn them of Dean's current predicament.

Dean inclines his head toward the boy. "How you doing over there?"

"M'okay," Ben mutters, kicking his feet out to the very edge of the salt line he can't move past. "I'm sorry, Dean."

Dean narrows his eyes in confusion. "What the hell for?"

The kid still isn't looking at him, is instead trying to scatter a small heap of dust in front of him with his fingertips. The pile doesn't budge. "I shouldn't have brought you here."

Ben, if you hadn't, your mom would be in danger right now," Dean reasons. "I'd rather it be me. And I know you feel the same."

"Dean…" Ben tries to argue. The hunter cuts him off with a sharp shake of his head.

"I just mean I'll be okay. It's gonna be fine," Dean nods, partly to himself. "Sam'll put the pieces together. They'll find us."

"But Phil's a psychic," Ben says, a small shudder running over his spine. "He knows…"

Dean tries to ignore the latest signal that something is wrong with Ben. "He can't know everything," he answers, a little too urgently. "The future changes every day. Every second."

"Dean?" Ben asks. He shifts on his heels, scooting around until he's facing Dean, arms wrapped around his knees.

"Yeah, bud?"

"I wish you hadn't taken our memories. I wish you had just stayed," Ben says. There are tears glistening against his cheeks, translucent and shimmering. "Or even if you left, I wish you would've just...left."

Dean ducks his head for a moment. Nods. "I know, Ben. Me too."

"Do you think, if you had to do it all over again…." Ben bites his cheek nervously, not sure he wants the answer to the question he's asking. "Do you think you would stay?"

"That's complicated," Dean answers, rubbing absently at his aching wrists."My life...I didn't want you and Lisa to have to live the way I do. To die the way you did. You should've had a life, Ben. I took that from you, and that's something I can never fix, no matter how badly I want to."

"I got so mad earlier," Ben says, shaking his head. He makes sure Dean is holding his gaze before he continues. "But Dean. I forgive you."

Dean scoffs wearily. "You shouldn't," he insists. "You don't even know all you've lost out on. If you did, you wouldn't even be able to look at me."

Ben unwinds his arms from around his legs, placing both hands gently on the tops of his knees. He picks at a stray thread. The thread doesn't move beneath his fingers. "Don't get me wrong, I'm pissed. I'm pissed at you for what you did," Ben says, giving up on the thread. "But I forgive you, Dean. Because I know you're not going to forgive yourself. And the thing is, being dead allowed me to keep my mom safe."

"Ben…"

"Yeah, that's it," Ben interrupts suddenly, a revelation forming inside his head. "Don't you see? _This_. This is why I couldn't leave. To keep Mom away from Phil. To help you keep her out of harm's way."

"Ben, I…" Dean pauses mid-sentence, listening. "Do you hear that?" he whispers after a long moment of silence. As he says it, the basement door opens, a shaft of light illuminating the doorway. Phil's heavy footsteps clunk slowly down the stairs. When he comes into view, he holds a water bottle and what looks like a ham sandwich. He shrugs bemusedly, head inclined in what Dean imagines is a sad and pointless attempt at a peace offering. Phil approaches slowly, watching Dean's outstretched feet.

"What's the plan for when I have to take a piss?" Dean asks. "You gonna hold it for me?"

"Ah, good point," Phil says, placing the sandwich next to Dean's bound hands. Dean lets him. Phil's eye catches on the piece of duct tape curled up on the floor, as if he'd forgotten for a moment that his hostage had been gagged the last time he'd seen him. "I'll grab a bucket from the kitchen." He straightens up, patting at Dean's knee.

Dean growls, kicking his feet out suddenly and without warning.

For a tiny moment, Dean thinks he's somehow managed to make contact and not feel it.

But the sound is from upstairs, and it comes again a moment later. A muffled impact with the floor. Then another. An unmuffled shout, followed by what can only be Sam's voice, words Dean can't quite decipher. But the message is clear enough, easily interpreted even from a floor below. The gist is: _Where's my brother?_

More muffled shouting, the scrabbling of boots on tile, the tell-tale signs of a fight. Dean, Phil, and Ben are frozen in surprise, listening for any hint of who has the upper hand. And then Dean's heart stops.

"Lisa?" he whispers, her shrill yell coming in clear through all the chaos going on above them. "LISA!" Dean yells in the next moment, pulling at his handcuffs with renewed purpose. "SAM!" he screams. Part of it is desperation, but Dean also uses the scream to cover the sound of a joint popping out of place, the sharp stab of pain that lances up through his now-broken thumb. He'd thought about it earlier, of course, but fighting off what sounded like five demons above them with only one hand and no weapon hadn't seemed liked the best odds at the time. But now, Sam and Lisa are here. The thought fills him with both optimism and dread.

Phil leaps away from Dean as he begins to yell, moving for one of the objects that Ben threw in his direction earlier. It is the long, ugly scythe-shaped blade from the tools lining the wall. Ben growls, attempting to push up against the salt line closest to Dean as Phil crouches next to the hunter, sliding the blade behind his head until it wraps snugly around his neck, biting into skin.

"Bastard," Dean snarls, shifting uncomfortably against the blade.

"Shut up," Phil growls back. "Shut up or I'll slice you open right here."

Dean quiets, swallowing hard. He shifts his fingers inside the cuffs, squeezing his eyes shut against the sharp pang of his dislocated left thumb. Slowly, painfully, he eases his thumb free of the cuff. Ben catches the movement, immediately shifting his eyes away in case Phil is watching him. But Phil is focused on the top of the stairs; gaze steady, though Dean can feel him shaking a little against him. A moment later, Phil stiffens. Dean moves his attention to the top of the stairs where first one and then a second, smaller shadow have appeared in the doorway.

"S…" he tries to warn, but Phil wraps a grubby hand around his mouth, silencing him. It takes everything Dean has to keep his now-free left hand in his lap.

The two shadows move slowly, deliberately down the stairs, the black shape of their guns obvious and imposing.

"Phil?" Sam calls when he's about halfway down, right before the stairwell opens up to the room. He pauses, listening.

"This wasn't supposed to happen," Phil whispers to himself, or maybe to Dean. There is true fear in his voice now, and despite his earlier thoughts, Dean can't find it in himself to feel bad for the guy. Dean can feel the thundering of Phil's heartbeat, the unsteady in-and-out of his scattered breath. It takes Dean back for a moment, plunges him straight into Purgatory with its pumping blood and clanging pulse.

"Don't try anything or he dies!" Phil shouts, suddenly, pulling Dean back to the present. He removes his hand from Dean's mouth, and Dean coughs in a much-needed breath. "I'll kill him, I promise you that."

"Okay. Okay, hold on," comes Sam's voice. He moves another step down the stairs, and Lisa's shadow follows after him. They both appear in plain sight a few seconds later, guns raised high above their heads in surrender. "Just let my brother go. I'm sure we can figure something out, here."

Sam finds Dean's eyes, and Dean wastes no time glancing down into his lap, twitching his free hand in Sam's line of sight. Sam nods his affirmation; barely a jerk of his head, but Dean sees it easily enough.

"Look, Phil, I'm not quite sure what all this is about, but I promise you I'm open to talking about it," Sam soothes, moving the rest of the way down the stairs. Lisa is glued to his side, her eyes roaming the room and finally landing on Ben. A million emotions flicker across her face before she settles on angered relief. She nods in his direction, smiling reassuringly. Ben smiles back at her from where he now stands inside his circle of salt. He reaches out a hand to her, and she reaches back, an invisible thread connecting them from across the room. She closes her eyes against the impossible feeling of it, the warmth that floods her fingertips. When she opens her eyes again, Ben is staring at her with fiery determination.

"Hey Phil," he says, eyes still on his mom. She stiffens beside Sam. "You wanna know the worst thing about you?"

Phil shifts his gaze to the ghost on his right. Only minutely, and only for a moment, but it is enough.

"You're a psychic, and you _still_ couldn't see this coming," Ben growls. He winks.

Everything happens very fast.

Dean takes advantage of Ben's distraction and shifts his free hand up between his throat and the blade, sliding the scythe from around his neck in one, smooth movement. Phil stumbles a little in his crouch, his balance thrown by the sudden shift. A gunshot rings out along the walls of the basement then, the bullet from Sam's gun slicing deliberately through the air and sliding neatly between Phil's eyes. The psychic doesn't even get the courtesy of a last breath before he's slumped against the back wall, eyes open wide and unseeing.

Dean, Sam, Lisa, and Ben stare at each other for a moment, gathering a collective breath.

"You guys okay?" Sam asks, breaking the silence. He slides his gun into his waistband, already moving to where Dean is. Dean nods as Sam kneels beside him, smiling tiredly and reaching for his little brother's sleeve, handcuffs still dangling from one wrist.

"You're bleeding," Sam says disapprovingly, like Dean can help it. A new slice has opened up across his palm from where he'd redirected Phil's blade. Dean rolls his eyes, patting reassuringly at his brother's forearm. His gaze slides over to the unmoving man on the floor.

"He's dead," Dean says stupidly, swallowing hard.

Sam nods grimly. "Him or us," is his regretful explanation before he catches sight of Dean's rapidly swelling thumb, even as the older hunter attempts to slide it out of sight. Sam hisses in sympathy, his next words on his tongue, but they never make it past his lips. Lisa speaks first, a shrill, panicked exclamation.

"What's happening? _What's happening_?"

Sam follows where Dean's eyes already are, spinning on his knees on the cold floor of the basement to find Lisa. She is standing several feet away from them within the scattered salt-lines of Ben's former prison, her hands resting on her son's small shoulders. But as Sam and Dean stand together to get a better look, they see that Lisa's fingers aren't actually making contact with anything- they're sliding right through Ben's shape. Even as they watch, swirls of dust pull themselves up from the ground, wrapping slowly around Ben's gradually dissolving feet.

Dean takes several deliberate steps in the kid's direction and then stops, eyes wide in horror. "Ben…" he whispers, the dull clink of his handcuffs resounding against his hip in the darkened room. But Ben just smiles, focused only on his mom.

"It's okay," he says to her, fear evident in his expression, even as he tries to reassure. "It's time for me to leave now. This is what I had to do."

"Sweetheart," Lisa says, and it is a plea. She reaches a hand out to touch Ben's face, her fingers resting just over the translucent skin and not actually touching. "Don't go…"

"I wish I could stay," Ben says, tears welling in his suddenly colorless eyes. "But you're safe now. You're all safe."

"You should be proud," Sam says, nodding at Ben. "You're a hero, Ben." Sam is watching Dean from the corner of his eye as he speaks, praying his brother doesn't crumble just yet. They'd known this was coming, after all. Doesn't make it any easier, of course, but nothing in their lives ever has been, and for now, Dean is still on his feet, jaw clenched as he stares at the disappearing ghost in front of them. He seems beyond words.

Ben smiles at Sam. "Thanks," he says, and then his gaze shifts to Dean. "Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah, buddy?" Dean rasps.

"You still owe me that machete."

Dean lets out a surprised huff that almost sounds like laughter and nods. He looks like he might answer, but before he can, Ben gasps, all of the barely-concealed fear suddenly leaving his face. Instead, he looks serene, lost in a dream made only for him. "I see it," he whispers. Around him, the dust has made its way up to his torso, swirling like a minuscule tornado. "There really is a _light_."

"Ben," Lisa sobs, reaching out for her son one last time. Ben's last words are for her, a whispered 'I love you, Mom,' before he fades into the dust completely. The particles that are left twist from gray to white to blue, a beautiful array of colors that twirl themselves into the air, illuminated from the inside by the light of Ben's soul. It is gone in the next moment, twisting upward and fading into the ceiling above their heads, leaving only Sam, Dean and Lisa standing together in Phil's basement.

Lisa lets out a gutted noise, falling to her knees on the cold floor. Dean moves for her immediately, but Sam stops him with a hand on his shoulder. "Just give her a minute," he insists at Dean's incredulous stare. "Let me see your wrists."

"Sam…" Dean starts to protest, but Sam shakes his head, reaching determinedly but carefully for Dean's hand, the one with the displaced thumb and the cut across the palm. He pulls a handkerchief from the back pocket of his jeans, pressing it to the bleeding wound, careful to avoid the rapidly swelling finger.

"Just let me stop the bleeding," Sam insists, working to do just that as he talks. "Then you can go to her. But she needs a second. Let her have it."

Dean glances back to where Lisa kneels on the concrete, soft, silent sobs shaking her frame. He rips his arm from Sam's grasp, and he goes to her. Pulls her into him and feels her latch onto him immediately, curling her fingers into the folds of his shirt. They stay like that for a long time. Distantly, Dean can hear the sounds of his brother making their presence scarce, but the only thing that matters is the woman wrapped in his arms. After a while, Dean's not sure how long, he feels a light pressure on his shoulder. He turns to find Sam a few inches away.

"You should take her home," he says. "I'll finish up here."

"You sure?" Dean asks.

Sam nods definitively, already going back to scrubbing Dean's blood from the floor. It takes several more minutes of coaxing, but eventually Dean pulls Lisa up from the ground. She leans into him a little on their way out of the house, but does most of the work for herself.

Dean walks Lisa to the Impala slowly, hand at her back, guiding her. She feels like a fragile thing beneath his palms, a sculpture ready to crack apart. They drive in silence because there's nothing to say, but when Dean pulls into the driveway, Lisa is already opening her own door and climbing out with what seems like purpose. Dean knows it isn't, but he lets her lead the way back into the foyer anyway, pausing in the entryway when she does. He doesn't have to wait long.

Lisa stands in the middle of the house with her arms at her sides, allowing the emptiness of the space to fill her up like a punishment Dean knows she doesn't deserve. She exhales slowly, letting her shoulders slump as she turns to face him. He remains silent, only slightly surprised when she takes two long strides towards him until their lips are close enough to touch. She kisses him with a grief that slides between his teeth and almost chokes him with its intensity. And as much as Dean wishes he could just keep kissing her, could just keep swallowing a little more of that pain for her, he knows she'll hate herself for it in the morning. He pulls away.

"Lis, no," he murmurs against her ear. "This isn't what you need right now. I'm not what you want."

"I can't have what I want," she sniffs, gaze to the floor. Tears are sliding down her cheeks like an afterthought, and she doesn't bother to brush them away. She wraps her arms around her own shoulders, and Dean takes another, small step away from her. He nods, even though she's not looking at him.

"I know. I'm sorry."

They stand like that for a long moment, caught between the walls of an echoing house that doesn't hold the things it should.

"I wish I'd never met you," Lisa says after a while.

"I know," Dean repeats.

Lisa sighs. "But I need you to stay. I need to not be alone tonight."

"Lis…" Dean chides.

"Not like that," Lisa clarifies, shaking her head. She glances back up at him, catching his eye for a moment. "I just mean I need you to be here. I need _someone_ to be here right now."

"Okay," Dean agrees, because there's no other answer he could possibly give.

They share the couch, blankets wrapped around them and bodies twisted together. Dean cries, too, once Lisa's no longer awake to see it. Tries not to let his body shake against hers as he cries for what they've all lost. All the things she and Ben should've had until he'd come along. He's not sure he'll ever be able to get to sleep, but it finds him before long, exhaustion outweighing everything else.

Sam finds them there when he walks in the door a few hours later, passed out together on the couch. He slides a wayward blanket back over both of them, careful not to wake them. There is sorrow on both their faces, that much is clear, but it's also perhaps the first time since Purgatory that Dean isn't twitching wildly in his sleep, lost in the throes of a nightmare. Sam watches them for a moment, wishing for...something. Not quite sure what that something is. He walks slowly towards the guest room, gathering his clothes for a shower.

He slides beneath the spray, trying to let the day slide from his skin, but it sticks to him like the memory it will always be for all of them now. Just one more weight to carry. One more burden to bear. He wishes the feeling of another failure wasn't so familiar by now. It keeps him awake for a while, but eventually Sam, too, falls steadily into dreams he won't remember in the morning.

* * *

 **One, final chapter next week. I would apologize for all the angst in this chapter, but alas, I feel like it's what the story called for.**


	18. Chapter 18

**I am so sorry this is so, so late! I don't want to wait even longer until tomorrow morning because who knows if I'll be able to post- one of my very best friends in the world is in town, and our days have been ridiculously full since she's gotten here. This is the first free moment I've had, and again, I do apologize for the tardiness! I hope you enjoy.**

 **~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ CHAPTER 18**

Dean and Lisa wake together, and Dean opens his eyes slowly, none of the usual panic or terror throwing him violently back into consciousness. Lisa shifts against him, her long hair tangled and wild. Neither of them moves for several minutes, just feeling each other breathe. Dean almost runs a hand through Lisa's hair the way he used to sometimes in the mornings, but his fingers fall away when he remembers when they are. His left thumb aches painfully, the joint having stiffened up overnight. Icing it had been the furthest thing from his mind.

"Breakfast?" Lisa says, finally, her voice still thick with sleep and heartache.

"Okay," Dean agrees.

Lisa nods against his chest. "And then you need to leave," she says, not looking at him.

Dean huffs a breath against her ear, almost lands a soft kiss in her hair and stops. "Lisa…" he starts, not sure where he wants to end. He doesn't want to leave, and yet he does. This push and pull, it's always been the same for them. She is the possibility he could only ever have fleeting glances of. Stay too long, and the illusion shatters. The reality of what they are has always had a way of seeping into the life they try to build together. Dean doesn't belong in her world, and she doesn't belong in his.

"I need to put myself back together somehow now. Start rebuilding all over again. I can't do that with you here," Lisa says, like she's reading his mind. "You can't be part of whatever structure I'm going to make for myself."

Dean takes a long time to answer. He thinks of a million things he could say, and none of them make a difference in what happens next. So he picks the easy way out.

"Not your best metaphor. You've always been shit with tools."

Lisa's snort is a little delayed, her playful slap just a little too hard against his forearm. She unwinds him from her, pulls him up from the couch, fingers still touching as she leads him into the kitchen. It's just cereal today, and they eat in silence save for the crunching and slurping of milk. Dean half expects Sam to make his way into the kitchen at some point, but he never does.

Instead, Sam listens to the almost-silence from the hallway. He's looking forward to leaving, to no longer feeling like he's living on the fringes of everybody else's lives. He feels guilty about feeling that way, but it's the truth, and he's promised he wouldn't lie to himself anymore. He'll try his best not to lie to his brother, either, but there are some things Dean doesn't need to know. After another moment, he yells in from the hallway that he'll meet Dean at the car.

* * *

The goodbye is nothing spectacular.

Dean and Lisa know for a fact this is the last time they'll see each other, but it's simply that: a fact. He hugs her, and she hugs him back and then lets go just as easily.

"Take care of yourself, Dean," she says, a whisper only meant for him, though Sam isn't within hearing distance.

"You too, Lis. You ever need anything…" Dean stops and cracks a small, sad smile, and Lisa echoes the expression. She'll never call him no matter what the situation, and they both know that.

Sam is waiting for him by the car across the street, arms resting on the hood with his fingers clasped together and head slightly bent, almost like he's praying. Dean reaches the driver's side. Behind him, he can distantly hear Lisa's front door finally begin to close. He doesn't turn around to watch her disappear one last time. Instead, he's looking at Sam. Sam stares back at him, sliding an ice pack over the hood of the car to him. He takes it gratefully, resting it against his ruined thumb.

"Hey man, are you…?" his little brother starts to say, and then shakes his head morosely. "You know what, never mind. Not gonna ask."

"I'm fine, Sam," Dean says, his tone even.

Sam shakes his head again. "No you're not, man."

Dean rolls his eyes. He could really do without the psychoanalysis at the moment. It feels as though he's been under a microscope ever since he popped up in Maine's wilderness: every decision and bad dream and goddamn facial expression closely monitored and filed away for further examination. He rolls his shoulders back and presses the ice pack a little harder against his thumb, staring up at the sky. The day is overcast, a sheet of gray doing its best to swallow the little bit of sunlight that's managed to seep through. It could be almost any time of day. It could be almost any place. It could be Purgatory, even. All that's missing is the stench of it.

"Yeah, well. It's not like there's any way to fix it. So…" Dean shrugs, leaves the sentence unfinished.

"So you ignore it?" Sam finishes for him.

Dean shrugs again. "Usually works."

Sam grimaces, untangling his hands and placing them facedown on top of the car. "You did a good thing here," he says, gesturing to the house behind Dean with a tilt of his head. Dean has no idea what to do besides laugh, so he does.

"You gotta be kidding me," he sputters. "I mean you can't be fucking…. fuck." Dean stops laughing, abruptly. He runs his good hand down his face, trying to resist the urge to leap over the car and throttle his brother.

"Ben's at peace," Sam reasons, and Dean blinks in disbelief, still not sure if Sam is just screwing around with him.

"He shouldn't even be _dead_ , Sam," Dean practically yells. "The only reason he _is_ is because he knew me. Because I set him on this stupid path. I never should've gone to them."

"I'm the one who told you to go to them," Sam says, breathing out a sad sigh. "I'm sorry I asked you to."

"You should be," Dean growls, and he's surprised by how much he means it. He wants to turn away from Sam, but that means facing Lisa's house and Dean doesn't ever want to look at that front door again. Instead, he leaves the ice pack on the hood and runs his injured hand over his face this time, leaving it there to block out the ugly, gray day and the expression on his brother's face.

"Dean?" Sam says after a moment. Dean doesn't move an inch.

"What?"

"I feel like you might not have made it without them."

Dean lifts his head. "What the hell are you talking about, Sam?"

"I just…" Sam pauses, lifts his hands from the car and moves a few steps closer to the front tire. He kicks at it softly, barely making contact. "I don't want to lie to you, and I think I just did," he says. Puzzled now, Dean waits, tracking the nervous way Sam shifts. "I don't think I'm sorry. At least, not sorry enough that I wouldn't ask you to do it all over again."

Dean doesn't know what to say. He stays rooted to the ground, but an angry pit of disgust grows inside his gut, filling him up. Sam watches Dean's face warily, licking his lips in frustration.

"Listen, I'm just...I'm saying this all wrong," he stammers.

"And what the hell _are_ you trying to say?" Dean counters, though he thinks he already knows. Because it's the same story as it's always been, no matter how badly they try to deny it. They'll save strangers from the ghosts that haunt them, from the monsters that stalk the darkness and steal them away. They'll save the world, sure. No hesitation. But there's always a catch. A hit they won't take, a sacrifice that's so far from plausible it's practically a goddamn unicorn.

Sam throws his hands up in frustration. "I guess I'm just saying that I'm glad you're here," he persists. "I'm glad you got through that year without me, despite all that's happened."

"Jesus," Dean hisses. It's everything he didn't want to hear. It's everything he _did_ want to hear. It's so wrong and it's so brutal, that swell of warmth he feels in his chest at the confirmation of what he wasn't sure was still there, filling up the air between them always. "Jesus that's so fucked up. Sam that's…"

"I know."

"What am I supposed to do with that?" Dean asks, because he really doesn't know. Sam shrugs- he doesn't know either. They never have. That's always been the place where all their problems begin, the place where they end. _If I just have you, I'll make it. If you're here, I can deal with whoever's not._

"I want to go," Dean says, suddenly needing it more than anything. The road ahead of them, the excuse not to stare each other in the eyes anymore. He's desperate for it, and it slips into his tone, colors his words with a plea. "Can we go?"

Sam nods his understanding, opens his door without a fight. "Yeah, Dean. We can go."

The ice pack leaves a tiny puddle behind when Dean snatches it from the roof of the car. He throws it back into the green cooler where Sam got it from, slamming the lid a little harder than necessary.

* * *

It's miles and miles later. They're almost to the next state, driving nowhere except _away_. The music is on, a little softer than usual. The silence wafts between every drumbeat and strum of a guitar, and they haven't looked at each other or spoken since getting in the car.

"I think I was waiting for you," Dean says suddenly, like they're in the middle of a conversation. He feels Sam start a little in surprise, senses the confused stare, but he doesn't turn to look at him yet. "That whole year with Lisa and Ben," he continues. "It's like I was just waiting for you to come back, you know? I never really let myself love them the way I might've, because I knew it had to be temporary. You _had_ to come back. I needed to find a way or something had to just…" Dean rolls his tongue over his teeth, picks up again. "Because you're right," he admits. "I wouldn't have made it. I know that. And this past year for you. I know that was…" Dean stops again, frustrated. "So I guess...you said it in the worst way I can imagine, but I guess I know what you mean."

Sam clears his throat and takes a long time to answer. "This last year. Even having Amelia. If you hadn't come back…I just..." Dean can hear Sam shake his head; can almost imagine the expression on his face. "Just. Me too, Dean."

Dean nods a little. "Okay."

"Dean?" Sam asks, timid. Dean inclines his head, waits. Sam's pause is too long again, and Dean can pinpoint the exact breath within which his little brother decides not to say whatever he was about to say.

"Let me know when you want me to drive," Sam says, finally.

Dean smiles slightly, eyes finally leaving the road for a moment to drift in Sam's direction. Sam smiles sheepishly back at him, a bit of old sadness filling out the lines around his mouth and seeping into the darkness of his eyes. Still, the smile is real.

Dean wonders at the unspoken words beneath Sam's tongue. He wonders at the road they're traveling, if it's the same as all the others they've walked: doomed to end in tragedy. He scratches absently at a crooked scar on his neck, brought back with him from the Land of Monsters.

"I'll wake you in a little while," he says.

Sam nodes and settles his shoulder against the Impala's window. He sleeps.

Dean lets the road take them.

* * *

 **Obviously this story deviated from season 8 in quite a few ways, and I guess a lot of that was just me wishing the brothers had talked about some of these things sooner than they did (or, you know, at ALL). Anyway, if you've stuck around this long, I want to thank you. This became quite the beast of a story without me planning it that way (started as a one-shot, if you can believe it), but such is the nature of writing sometimes. Again, thank you all so much for your words and your interest. See you next time!**


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